


Skating By

by Soundtracker



Category: Carol (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Drama, Blood and Injury, Eventual Sex, F/F, Family Dynamics, Medical, Multi, Musical References, Roller Derby, Seattle, Skating, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:08:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 34,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26243164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soundtracker/pseuds/Soundtracker
Summary: Two strangers meet at a popular Seattle park. They have nothing in common. Set in 2016 Seattle where multiple hearts collide in a story of love, loss and the unlikely places we find our "people."
Relationships: Carol Aird/Therese Belivet
Comments: 150
Kudos: 137





	1. Out of Bounds

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know, I pulled this skating story once, rebooted it, pulled that and twisted and turned the original characters into a book. And here it is, the original story again? A recent setback of a bad ankle sprain -- non-fiction karma for my habit of putting fictional characters into harm's way -- reminds me of this story and the joy of writing and posting it that first time. If you've already read it in some form, I understand your passing on a reread. Hope new readers enjoy the escape. 
> 
> First five chapters now. Dole out the rest in the coming weeks. Peace and good health to all.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First contact.

**_Out of Bounds_ ** _\- Roller derby skaters must remain in bounds. No part of the skater’s skate(s) may touch outside the track boundary._

A yellow and white de Havilland DHC-2 Beaver floatplane flies over predawn Seattle. It’s a crisp morning, the first day of fall. The 6:57am sunrise creeps over Lake Washington in the East. In the West, the Olympic Mountains appear bald after the long, dry summer, only hints of snowpack remain. The mountains and the bluest skies on earth paint a breathtaking backdrop for the vast Puget Sound waters. The plane levels off, the landing reminiscent of a seabird, coasting wobbly over another body of water, Lake Union, before touching its feet down into the water. It glides past floating house boats and Seattle’s iconic Space Needle and the southern portion of the lake suffering from progress, the area a warzone of overdevelopment to make room for behemoth Amazon and burgeoning hipster Internet and biotech companies. 

North of these loud and dizzying changes lies a tranquil slice of paradise, Green Lake, yet _another_ body of water, but this one smaller, calmer and referred to by tourists as the Central Park of the West Coast. A lush landscape surrounded by trees and a paved path of nearly three miles that encircle the water, the park beckons urban dwellers: runners, walkers, bikers, birders, boaters, swimmers, skaters, nature loves …most on the quest to simply keep moving. 

The sun rises higher, shining on a dirty red Jeep Renegade topped by a 14’ green sea kayak. The 4x4 flies north on Aurora Avenue, its driver, just one month shy of her thirtieth birthday, makes her way to the lake, shifting gears of the rig, climbing Seattle hills with ease. She knows these streets well, every curve to Green Lake travelled habitually en route to a near religious morning workout regimen. Today she drives a little faster for the simple reason of her new pair of Luigino Strut Inline Racing Skates that rest on the passenger seat. She’s practically on an endorphin high just _thinking_ about the high-end skates.

The southwest parking lot isn’t crowded when the Jeep rolls into a spot, the vehicle barely reaching a complete stop before the driver grabs her new skates. Pulling off shoes and socks she rushes to sit on a curb where she’ll put on the skates. “Barefoot Technology” sold this woman-skating-phantom, the ability to wear no socks means less friction and little time gearing up. With her, it’s all efficiency. Her personal motto could be the KISS principal, _Keep it simple stupid_. She believes in a simplified life and hers consists of two things: working as a cybersecurity analyst and skating. Nothing else can get in Therese Belivet’s way. 

Or, so she thought.

It’s quiet on the paved path that wraps around the lake this early. She’s thankful to miss the intrusive crowds that assemble here by late morning. The Mothers with lane-hogging strollers, walkers with every breed of dog imaginable, fit runners, flab runners, homeless people pushing shopping carts full of belongings, spastic children learning to ride bikes weaving in between the foot and wheel lanes, groups of oblivious men and women in conversation walking three-wide and taking up most of the path, skaters on giant surf boards using long paddles for propulsion … All of these humans have one thing in common. They get in Therese Belivet’s way. 

Skating to the edge of the path it would be inaccurate to make assessments about her strength based solely on a small frame: appearances are always a deceptive measurement. She is an animal powerhouse getting ready to cross-train for her passion: competitive roller derby. Muscular thighs hide beneath black running tights. A close-fitting gray long-sleeve Nike top conceals ripped abs and the small tattoo of a roller skate under her navel. She’s about to feel how these new 110mm polyurethane wheels spin, simply the idea of it practically conjures a taste of sweat she’s about to produce and she licks her lips.

A blue bandana is wrapped around her head and tied tightly, keeping hair out of her eyes and her focus on the path. She feels strong, menacing even on the large-diameter wheels. She kicks off, her left skate makes contact with the pavement first, this training session commencing near the Small Craft Center where rowing, canoeing, kayaking and sailing classes and clubs meet. Two crew racing shells captained by trim young men skim across the lake, their glides in sync with her warm-up speed. 

Her green wheels begin to hum, an intoxicating sound to her ears. Left, right, she begins to fight friction, trying to regain some of the 45% of power all skaters naturally lose to it. A locomotive of stretching hamstrings, hip adductors and abductors, her center of gravity displaces horizontally. Pushing and gliding, she shifts body weight in miniscule and instinctive ways, naturally staying in control of each defined muscle group and constantly juggling an innate dance between balance and motion. 

Ends of brown shoulder-length hair stick out under the blue bandana, bobbing in the wind she creates. Picking up speed she passes a few walkers and pumps hard, whizzing beyond a park bench where a fisherman tries his luck catching trout stocked in the lake. A short woman in an unflattering hat hangs close to shore lurking in the brush, with binoculars and a camera, she waits for destiny or chance to bring her a blue heron. 

Lap one is completed in less than 19 minutes. It’s slow, but only the first lap after all. Bending forward, she places her right hand behind her back and makes a fist. With eyes narrowed into aerodynamic concentration, her left arm swings fluidly and she begins to lose all sense of herself, transcended. While others eat, pray, love, watch a screen or do a drug, Therese Belivet skates. Her addiction is motion. She crosses one powerful leg over the other and makes a turn that leads to the long straightaway section of the path, her favorite because it’s where she picks up the most speed. 

Up ahead she vaguely notices a tall blonde woman walking in the opposite direction in the other lane, the _Foot Lane_. The woman does not notice Therese; she’s distracted, thinking about everything except the “Focused Attention Meditation” podcast coming through her earbuds. The woman often tries spending time with this sort of media lately, hoping to reach the Zen state she’s read about where her mind should open to everything, rather than remaining closed, like it is now, bogged down by stress. Meditative climax, it’s lately so out of her reach, the very idea of focusing on her own damn breaths bores her to death. 

Therese bends deeper, lunges forward and picks up momentum, her head cocked to the right, away from the water. The podcasting woman studies ducks on the lake, long giving up on the chance to focus on breathing or open her “third eye,” the mystical one she’s read about that she surely does not possess. Ten feet separate skater and walker, nine ... whoosh, glide ... focus, breathe ... eight. Unfocused, shallow breathing of the walking woman occurs out of step with deep animal breathing of the skater. Walking woman does not hear eight fanatical 110mm wheels ascending at an infuriated clip. It is at this point of no return a distracted walker decides to cross the path. CROSS THE PATH? She doesn’t look up to see wheels coming for her in the WHEELS section of the path? She is oblivious to the hell-on-wheels speed skater coming for her. 

Seven feet ... six … 

At the five foot gap the skater recklessly, naively still thinks, hopes the woman will look up ... four ... three ... two ... 

**“HEY! LADY!!??”**

Lady does not look up in time, finally hearing the warning too late. She freezes midway in the path, finally seeing Therese’s open mouth and flailing arms, a distance of one foot separation, oblivious walker, hell bent skater and four crazed eyes make contact too damned late for this meeting to be cancelled. A locomotive blur of blue bandana and black tights - soon to become a black and blue body - the skater barrels down on the frozen woman as one foot of distance between them turns into inches in ... seconds. 

Skater and walker blurt out indeterminate grunts in disbelief. Their upper arms brush together in a reckless instant before shouts of “Fuck” from the skater who flies off the path and directly into the path of a metal park bench, her only choice to avoid a crash of women. She continues an attempt to stop as wheels meet grass and dirt beyond the pavement, a last second T-stop with perpendicular skates forming the shape of a letter tee. The stop fails and she bashes directly into the solid, affixed metal object. Her right lower leg slams into the bench’s corner edge first, upper body falling and lower body dragged along the entire length of the bench’s front edge, bruising and tearing flesh. She lands on the ground in dewy grass, a stupefied heap of murdered motion. 

_Skater down._

_Out of bounds._

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry.” The walker moves fast, her angular face losing color. “Are you okay?” She stands about a foot from the downed skater despite the trained instinct to move closer and provide assistance.

“Are you serious? No, I’m not… _okay_! Don’t you look before you fucking cross lanes?” 

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you.” 

“Didn’t SEE me? You didn’t look!” The skater whispers “asshole” not softly enough.

“ _Excuse me_?” She takes a few steps closer. “You were going too fast. I wasn’t aware this walking path is a Roller Fucking Skate Fast Track.” 

“They’re inline,” lady, “not roller fucking skates.” In the heat of the moment, civility and decorum burn to the ground. The skater, holding her leg, tries to stand.

“Don’t do that. You may have broken something. Let me see your leg.” The walker’s tone takes a turn toward concern, mindful of the tears forming in the skater’s eyes. 

“Don’t touch me. Please, don’t touch me. You’ve done enough.” 

Ignoring her, the woman kneels beside and speaks calmly. “It was an accident. We’re both to blame.” 

“I’m cut pretty bad aren’t I?” An awareness of the seriousness of the situation sinks in after a glimpse of ripped trainer tights and the bleeding gouge on the side of her lower right leg. “Christ,” she looks away. 

“Oh, it’s not that bad,” the woman smiles and places a hand on the injured leg, a communication of empathy like nothing the skater’s ever heard or felt. It sinks inside her wound and deep into her bones. Remorse for her earlier temper sets in quickly, a shift inside of her, a turn on a dime as sharp as the sharpest hairpin corner she’s navigated. Dumbfounded, perhaps in shock from the accident, she watches as the other woman takes off her jacket, not in the casual way people remove garments, but with a great sense of urgency and purpose. Under the denim jacket a gray tee shirt comes into view. The woman slides out of the shirt with clandestine speed and grace. Therese, initially clueless as to the purpose of the unexpected disrobing, glimpses hints of the woman’s exposed abdomen and a flash of black bra before the entire vision disappears under the denim jacket the woman slithers back into. The tee shirt is spread out fast and placed carefully under the injured leg. The woman reaches behind the skater’s head and pulls off the blue bandana.

“Listen to me. Look at me.” The woman’s sober tone feels as weighty as if she placed her hands on either side of the skater’s face. Her intense eye contact hones in directly in line with the young woman’s gaze. “I’m going to help you, all right?” 

Therese swallows hard and manages an uncharacteristically yielding response. 

“Okay.”


	2. Taking a Knee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting the skater to the hospital.

**_Taking a knee_ ** _is when a skater is seriously injured on the track - it is common practice for skaters to drop to one knee while the injured skater is treated._

Kneeling beside the wounded skater, the woman works fast, instinctively recounting refresher first-aid training she receives yearly. Quick thinking on her feet manifests second nature, but foraging for medical supplies at Green Lake Park lands her in unfamiliar terrain. At least she has the tee shirt and bandana and the semblance of some kind of plan. 

She assesses the laceration with three objectives: 1) slow the bleeding; 2) elevate the leg; and 3) get to the nearest hospital. Numbers one and two she can manage. Number three, not so much.

She flattens out the skater’s blue bandana, former athletic headwear about to turn medical tourniquet. The injured woman watches, noting the woman’s ease, how she manages to move fast and with composure. She’s seen people with similar confidence in her line of work – solving technology problems, computer security issues, the stuff of firewalls, vulnerability assessments and encryption – nothing involving her own bleeding flesh.

“Tell me your name,” the woman keeps working. It’s a distraction technique the stranger uses while pulling thick blades of grass from the wound. The girl winces in response to unhappy nerve endings and entirely forgets the question.

“Sorry,” the woman apologizes, attuned to the girl’s pained facial expressions. She continues assessing the situation, smiling in contrast to inner concern. “So, what about that name of yours?” 

“Yeah. Ah. It’s Therese,” the girl responds through gritted teeth and focuses on a passing cloud to distract from the pain. 

“How unusual.” The statement could summarize this entire encounter. Wheels inside the woman’s head spin forward with what’s required to transport the injured skater to an ER. If only she drove to the lake today. She lives close, but not close _enough_. “All right then, Therese,” she accentuates the zee sound in the name, moving closer, the bandana held tightly in her hand. 

“This may hurt a little,” she says before her hands float around the injury, spinning the tee shirt into a makeshift bandage/tourniquet then tying it off with the bandana. The woman works fast, her particular medical experience causes her to automatically handle the leg as if it were an infant requiring swaddling, a task she could effectively perform blindfolded, her hands move efficiently, like a Ninja. She’ll swaddle the leg tight, the way most infants prefer to be bound. It will accomplish a means of creating direct pressure on the limb to control bleeding and decrease the swelling that will inevitably follow a person colliding with a metal bench. 

“So, tell me, Therese with a zee,” she continues with the diversion, the name deliberately mispronounced in the customary fashion, an ess sound on the second syllable, “what’s the story on your name?”

Therese looks skyward in response to the pain spreading along the anterior tibial nerve no longer in denial about this injury. “My mom read the name on a list of French baby names and liked it.” 

“Is your mother French?” 

“No, but she’d like to be.” 

Laugh lines appear in the corners of the woman’s eyes, they stretch and bend. She’s heard plenty of baby naming stories in her line of work. Parents frequently obsess too much about the naming process; she’s grown weary of it considering the types of infants she deals with the most are often not given a name at all. 

Therese follows the bandaging hands, her focus no longer hidden in the clouds or on the occasional passersby, like the random cyclist who asks “Is everything all right?” and the woman nodding them away to concentrate entirely on the leg. She can only do what’s needed in this current moment, turning clothing into medical supplies. 

The woman does sense the girl’s attention on her, conscious of how closely she’s being watched. She doesn’t mind. She wonders if she _should_. Professionally she’s used to this sort of thing, being observed by perfect strangers, mostly parents of newborns in the hospital where she works. Generally she’s most accustomed to being watched by men, the opposite sex often feel entitled to watch a woman like her, wondering what it might feel like to move in tandem with her feminine beauty and energy or more explicitly, move inside of it. Something about the nature of this particular watching feels different to the woman and of equal reciprocity. It causes a strange new desire to accentuate how she moves her body. Edges of the bandage are tied off, folding and pressing like she’s making origami, a hint of swagger in even the way she flips her head to rearrange hanging bangs from her eyes. 

The bandaging is completed when the bandana is tied firmly in the center of the tee-shirt-bandage, providing pressure near the deepest part of the laceration. “Please tell me you drove here,” heading directly toward step #3. _Get to the hospital._

The woman gingerly removes the right skate in order to reduce stress on the leg while Therese continues to appear confused and frightened by step #3. “Yes, I …drove.” 

“Good because I walked here today. Where are you parked?”

Therese points, with hesitation, to the southwest lot not far from where they are. “I’m over by the boat center. But, please, I can’t. I ... I hate hospitals …and doctors ... and nurses …” 

“It’ll be fine. You probably just need an x-ray and a few stitches.” 

“Stitches?” She sits up. She’d run if she could. “No. Wait.” She grabs the woman’s arm. 

“Therese, you’ll be fine. I promise. And, I’ll be with you.” The instant the words are spoken, the woman regrets them, at least the _I’ll be with you_ part. “I need to get your car. While I’m gone I want you to place a hand under your right knee, like this.” She demonstrates, using the woman’s left leg, how to apply pressure to the popliteal artery located under the knee, a way to further slow blood loss. “Got it?” 

“Yes.” The girl says, cupping her hand behind her right knee. 

“Give me your keys.” 

Car keys are removed from the waistband of the skater’s tights and handed to the woman.

“Describe your car.” 

A brief description is stammered. Red Jeep, green kayak. 

“I’ll pull up right here.” The woman points to Green Lake Way, the street that runs behind the scene of their near collision. 

The woman walks in the direction of the boat center until she’s out of the girl’s sight. This is where she runs, carrying the right skate that dangles at her side, hitting her leg the faster she goes. Unless searching for a clown car, spotting a red Jeep with a green kayak couldn’t be easier. The first thing she notices about the Jeep, aside from its interior being a complete mess, is the five-speed-MANUAL-transmission. _Shit!_ She recalls the morning’s failed meditation routine, deciding now’s a good time to observe the sensation of the air furiously entering and exiting her body. Soon she’s muttering to herself, as she does under pressure, stammering about clutches and gears, another hopeless non-Zen moment. She blocks out the upcoming task of driving a filthy five-speed manual SUV, suppressing the unpleasant memories of a certain cranky little stick shift VW Beetle whose transmission she likely wrecked years ago during college.

Before driving the makeshift aid car, she needs to prep it for the waiting passenger. Paraphernalia cluttering the backseat is flung onto the floor, breathing hard from the run, she’s still muttering: “Elevate. Elevate the leg … with what, what, what the hell?” Flying gym bag, shoes, papers, books, drink cans and a half-eaten apple hit the floor. When she notices camping gear in the rear storage area, including two sleeping bags, she yells “Bingo!” and throws them both onto the floor of the back seat. 

Plopped into the driver’s seat, she adjusts mirrors and pushes the seat back frantically. LOUD heavy metal music pours out of every speaker when the engine turns over. “Shit, shit, shit!” She struggles to find the off button.

Gears begin a stripping dance, two left feet toggle out of step amongst gas, clutch and brake pedals. The Jeep makes crude sounds of protest heading north on Green Lake Way.

It’s a short drive to the injured skater. Running down the grassy slope, the woman sees a small group gathered near the fallen skater. She asks one of them, a middle-aged man with a bird-boned runner’s body in too short shorts for help. “Excuse me,” she says, “can you please help me get her into that SUV?” Her head tilts toward the Jeep. 

“Yeah, sure. What happened?” 

“Skating accident.” Meager details are offered before she provides instructions on how to carry the patient: “You lift her on the left side, like this.” He is shown how to hold the girl with one hand behind her knee and the other behind her back. “I’ll support her injured leg while we walk together. 

The man doesn’t respond, still processing the steps. 

“Okay?” 

“Yes. Sorry.” He is ordinarily overbearing and used to being in charge. 

“On my count. One-two-three.” They lift her in tandem, seamlessly making their way up the slope. The sinewy runner is deceptively strong and takes most of the skater’s weight, holding firmly onto her as the woman supports the injured leg. They reach the Jeep where the man is directed to grab onto Therese’s armpits and slide her in as he enters the backseat first, walking backwards. 

“SLOW down!” The woman shouts curtly to the assisting man; he pulls Therese too quickly onto the seat, making the skater’s face strain. 

One sleeping bag is placed under Therese’s knees, the other under her feet -- one foot still in a skate, the other bare. “Keep holding onto the back of your knee like I showed you.” 

The Jeep jerks and shakes the four miles from Green Lake to University of Washington’s Medical Center Emergency Department, the car mistreated, gears grinding in between the application of too little or too much gas. Several times, upon hearing cruel moans released from the Jeep, Therese almost speaks up to provide a word of advice about how not to destroy her vehicle. She stops herself, catching glimpses of the driver’s reflection in the rearview mirror. The expression screams of determination and innocence, strength and tenderness. She’s trying her best, her very best.

“Therese, I’m so sorry. I might need to buy you a new car.” The SUV jerks through an intersection. 

“Don’t worry about it. I strip gears all the time,” she lies. 

Few words are exchanged during the rest of the trip. The driver becomes preoccupied navigating a complex, crowded Seattle with its streets victim to ill-equipped infrastructure not able to accommodate massive growth. It’s a typical morning commute of competing cars, buses, bikes and pedestrians darting and weaving like crazed mice with the same agenda: ME First. 

Therese can’t stop looking down at the tee shirt wrapped around her injury. It feels odd knowing her skin makes contact with fabric the woman wore. The shirt touched the woman, rubbed against parts of her body: arms, stomach … her back. The shirt touching her skin made contact with that black bra, the image of it momentarily flashes inside her head. Her own blood continues to seep into that shirt, staining it with liquid that once flowed through her own heart, commingling with the stranger’s sweat that’s surely on the shirt, their minerals mixing while she lies there helpless. _Am I losing too much blood? Am I delirious?_ She wonders of her mental state and looks out the window, ashamed of the places her mind keeps traveling. 

A blinking light on the back of a commuting cyclist catches her attention – the light pulsing fast, like her heart in dread of the approaching hospital she sees up ahead. It dawns on her at this late moment that she never asked the woman her name. Perhaps she should ask now? No, the timing doesn't feel right. Plus, they’ll likely never see each other again. What’s the point? The woman, clearly a Good Samaritan, would stop for anyone in a similar situation. And, she’s older, likely ten or more years, probably married with a busy life and no time for new _friends_. 

From where she’s situated in the back seat, it’s not possible to see the woman’s left hand on the steering wheel. She never thought to look as she wrapped her leg. How ridiculous to be concerned with such matters at a time like this. She’s happy for the distraction of her cell phone that buzzes from where she left it in the glove box.

“Do you want your phone?” The woman asks.

“Yes, please if it’s not too much trouble when we get to the hospital.” 

The Jeep sputters into a temporary spot close to the emergency entrance. The woman reaches into the glove box and hands it off before rushing into the ER. She returns with a hospital worker pushing a wheelchair and together they maneuver the skater into the chair. The woman explains that the ER is fortunately not busy. “I told them the details of your injury ... our accident. You shouldn’t have to wait. I can go, if you like … perhaps you’d rather have a friend pick you up? I can easily get a ride home from here.” 

“No. Would you please stay?” 

“All right,” matter of factly, the woman states, professional concealment of curious relief and strange, uncharted joy, feelings too embryonic to diagnose. “I’ll park, can’t stay here in a temporary spot.” Leaving, she’s unaware of how the skater turns to watch her pull away, the wheelchair spinning through the ER’s double glass door entrance and the distance between them growing. 

Seated in the waiting room, the woman catches up with her cell phone, scrolling through messages. An email from her ex-husband waits. She’ll sit on that one for a while. Most communication from him tends to put her in the foulest mood lately. She smiles when she sees a missed call from her sweetheart, Randy and begins to call him back but stops when a nursing assistant appears beside her. 

“Are you the woman who brought in the injured rollerblader?” 

“Yes, I am. Is everything all right?” 

“Rapid Response Team to Cardiology ...” an announcement broadcasts over the hospital intercom interrupts. 

“She’s going to need eight stitches,” the nurse assistant continues after the announcement, “and she is feeling rather anxious. Keeps saying she doesn’t like hospitals … Anyway, she’s asked for you.” 

“For me?” her tone vaguely stunned.

“Would you mind coming back? It may help calm her down before the doctor stitches her up.” 

A long hallway of polished linoleum tiles leads to a row of exam rooms, one containing the anxious girl. The woman considers how she should feel annoyed that her day off continues being consumed tending to a complete stranger. Yes, she really _should_ be annoyed. 

The exam room door opens and she pauses for an instant, gathering her composure before entering.


	3. Team Timeout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carol calms Therese at the hospital and then takes her home.

**_Team timeout_ ** _is when the roller derby team calls a timeout to discuss what is happening during a game._

Therese, lying on an examination table, looks up at florescent lights affixed to the ceiling. She feels distrau

ght and anxious. When the door opens, her eyes immediately reach for the woman standing in the doorway, the woman who helped her after they nearly collided. They are practically strangers but greet each other with acute familiarity. 

“Would you mind giving us a few minutes?” The woman addresses the doctor who stands at the corner of the room with his suturing supplies at the ready, hoping the patient will cooperate, hold still and remain calm. 

“Yes, well, I suppose so ...” He looks too old to be a practicing physician and wears unprofessional, messy blue scrubs, thick, hairy arms hang low at his sides. He shuffles toward the door. “Please don’t be too long,” he snaps, “we need to get her stitched up.” With irritation he glances at his watch. 

“All right, we’ll be quick. Thank you.” The woman nods as the physician and nursing assistant leave the room. 

“Therese, you’re going to be fine.” The woman leans against the closed door. 

“I’m scared. I hate hospitals. I feel weird. My heart is pounding. Feel it.” 

The woman doesn’t know where to look or if she should come closer, perplexed by the oddest request to feel this young woman’s beating heart. She decides to pull up a stool, the kind with wheels that the doctor will sit on when he stitches up the patient’s leg. She leans in and places one hand on a cheek where warm tears press against her palm, the sensation of fear drips from the young woman. A fragile expression defeats any hopes of resistance and gradually the woman places her hand over the girl’s heart and feels how hard it pounds. 

“Oh, sweetheart, it’s okay. It’s just a cut. They’ll fix it and you’ll be …” Before she can finish, the girl moves toward her and presses lips, wet from crying, against hers. The lips move against her, but she remains unmoving. The patient whispers: “I need you.” Hands probe, reaching inside her jacket. Fingers wander along the edge of her black bra, slipping without permission under elastic, trying to touch what’s supported underneath. 

The exam room door flies OPEN and the impatient doctor appears. “What - the - the - hell is going on?” The nursing assistant, not far behind, covers her mouth.

“Therese. NO!” The woman’s body jerks upright, a Jacklyn-in-the-box of powerful awakening, a jolt up and off the mattress where she’s been sleeping for the past three hours. Disoriented, she groans. It’s very quiet and she’s quite alone in her bedroom, shouting out names of people she barely knows in a rueful dream-voice that sounds nothing like her own. The room is dark, except for residual light coming from a soft night light in the hall bathroom. She slides out of bed, landing with her head floating with REMaining nocturnal images. Sweat soaks parts of her hair, drips down her back, in between her breasts. She feels her way toward the bathroom to awaken with handfuls of cold water splashed onto her face.

* * *

**Thirteen hours earlier …**

The woman is led into the exam room. Therese sees her coming through the door, those kind eyes belonging to the person who took care of her and brought her here. She looks down at her hands, feeling sheepish and childish summoning her here. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers as a young child who’s just lost something important apologizing to a parent. Therese feels safer already, just seeing the woman approach, though still, she doesn’t know her name.

“Did you bandage and care for Therese after the accident?” The doctor asks the question – a fit, muscular young man wearing neat, clean blue scrubs. 

“Yes. Guilty.” She smiles, feeling awkward and not at all interested in small talk.

“You did a wonderful job slowing the bleeding. Do you work in health care?”

“I’m a NICU nurse,” she responds with reluctance, looking at Therese rather than the physician. Therese is not surprised to learn of her profession, though embarrassed she never thought to ask. It makes her feel worse about how caustically she spoke to her initially, just after their near-collision.

“Would you mind giving us a few minutes?” The woman addresses the doctor and nursing assistant.

“Sure,” the physician says, “but don’t be too long. We need to get her stitched up and into x-ray.” He is polite, but assertive.

“Therese, you’re going to be fine. Tell me what you’re feeling.” She stands at the edge of the examination table.

“I told you how I hate hospitals. I just feel really weird. My heart is pounding.” Her shaky voice mirrors internal fear. ”And, they say I can’t skate for at least four weeks. I’m on a roller derby team and I’ll miss practices and several games. I had plans to camp with friends this weekend too.” 

The woman nods, “Roller derby, huh?” She comments without enthusiasm, unable to relate and intrigued by the paradoxical nature of this girl. How could anyone be this strong, adventurous and competitive, devastated to miss a dangerous sport for a month; yet, anxious about sutures and afraid of hospitals? It’s especially hard to relate for someone who spends the better part of her weekdays in a hospital. 

She pulls up a stool, the kind with wheels that the doctor will sit on when he stitches the leg. “You’re having an anxiety attack. Your body thinks this hospital is a predator you need to run from or fight. You just need to breathe, slow down the adrenaline. That’s all this is.”

“Just breathe. Breathe with me.” Therese closes her eyes partway so she can steal glimpses of the woman taking breaths with her. It doesn’t take long for her breathing to slow. Her brain shuts down the adrenaline torrent and a hammering heart slows.

“UW has one of the best emergency departments in this country. Your injury, though major to you, is small potatoes for them.”

“I’m so sorry.” Therese looks up. 

“Sorry why?” 

“You’ve done so much to help and I don’t even know your name.”

The woman laughs. She pulls a Kleenex out of a box on the counter and hands it to Therese. “It’s okay,” she says and spontaneously, without warming, the girl wraps one arm around her back and lifts her head so it rests slightly against the woman’s shoulder.

“Four weeks will go by quickly and you’ll be skating in no time.” She softly pats the back of Therese’s head. 

“What is your name?”

The answer must wait until after the interruption of another hospital announcement: “Code Blue, 4 South.” 

_Code Blue indeed._

“Carol.” Her head drops slightly when she answers, causing her mouth to get buried in the skater’s hair. The name travels past auditory nerves, releasing electricity in the girl’s brain. Gradually the name gets lodged inside her heart where it immediately wants to spread and flourish.

They pull apart. 

  
  


The nursing assistant fills a syringe with local anesthetic that Therese’s leg will be infiltrated with prior to suturing. Carol begins to perform the task of distracting her.

“Therese, where do you work? Tell me what you do?” 

“I’m a cybersecurity analyst for a small company called BigFace Analytics.” 

“BigFace? Only in Seattle.” 

“Carol?” 

“Yes?”

“I need to let my office know I won’t be into work. I’ve not had a chance to text anyone. Could you send out something for me? It’s too awkward lying here like this.” 

The doctor begins stitching, relieved the patient is calm so he can easily perform, a tailor repairing the tear in fabric that is human skin.

“Are there messages from someone named Jay?” Therese asks after Carol enters the phone password.

“Yes. There are quite a few new messages from him… or her?” She turns the phone so Therese can see a string of text messages starting an hour ago. The latest one reads: _CRAY-Zee, where u at? Should I call Police!?_

Carol looks puzzled or amused.

“I work with Jay. She’s a cybersecurity analyst, like me. And, she’s on my roller derby team. She’s very strange, in a good way. 

“Shall I tell her not to call the police then?” 

“Yes, please. Could you tell her to pass the word that I’ve had a little accident and will call her later today to explain?” 

“Sure.” Carol pecks out the text reply without the slightest understanding of the strong bonds Therese shares with her teammates.

The doctor and assistant look up occasionally from their sewing to note the implicating way the women communicate, how they avoid each other’s glances. 

After suturing is complete, Therese needs precautionary x-rays. She is helped into a wheelchair and taken to x-ray. Carol follows and waits outside the open door of the x-ray room. Her phone rings. She answers since it’s Randy. He usually calls during his lunchtime and she might not have another chance to chat with him today. She tries to keep her voice quiet, walking down the hall a few paces. Therese manages to hear most of the conversation, thanks to poor insulation and Carol’s voice that somehow with serendipity carries itself straight to her ears.

“Hi Randy. Sorry I missed your call … Yes, I know,” she laughs, “I’ve had a crazy morning. Tell you all about it when I see you tomorrow. Sure, sure, right. I can’t believe our anniversary is coming up either ... I like it … yes, it’s a great idea. Sounds like a plan ....Okay. I love you, sweetheart. Hope the rest of your day goes well. Bye.”

* * *

The ride in the Jeep from the hospital to Therese’s condo is quiet. Few words are spoken between the women. Carol tries to make small talk several times in between shifting gears, her skill with manual transmission improved. Therese remains unresponsive.

“Well,” Carol makes another attempt with the distant passenger, “it’s very good news you didn’t break any bones. Your recovery shouldn’t be too long.” 

“Yes, it’s good news.” The meager response said while she replays Carol’s voice inside her head talking to this “Randy” person about celebrating an anniversary. 

“Is everything all right, Therese? Did I say something to offend you?” 

“No. Guess I’m just tired. Sorry.” Of course someone like her has a husband, boyfriend, partner and or lover ... lovers. Misreading attentiveness as a connection between them surely occurs often with someone in her line of work. She’s simply trained to care. Therese looks out the window feeling quite fooled.

“Turn here. My condo is the gray and red one on the right.” The Jeep slides into the tiny one-car garage below Therese’s modern condo in the Fremont neighborhood just south of Green Lake. The condo looks similar to the wave of trendy buildings cropping up all over the city with bold exterior color combinations and partial aluminum or faux siding meant to _look_ like real wood, river rock or rusted iron. But none of it is real.

“Are you sure you can get a ride home?” Therese asks, opening the passenger door. 

“Yes, of course, a friend is picking me up. It’s no problem. And, wait for me, Therese. Don’t try to get out of the car by yourself.”

Carol walks alongside Therese, her hand instinctively extends. “Just grab onto me if you need to,” she regrets the wording and experiences pangs of unfamiliar desperation.

With each advancing, uncertain step Therese wishes her cluttered apartment were left in a better state. What awaits Carol consists of books stacked on the desk, several laptops taken apart on the dining room table and kayak paddles leaned against the couch. Her bed is unmade and a few colorful piles of clothes decorate the bedroom floor. It’s not that bad, but for _this_ impromptu guest, she’s mortified.

Carol helps the patient to her bed and finds pillows and props up the injured leg. “Therese, I forgot the bag with your pain meds out in the car. I’ll be right back.” She locates the bag containing not only pain meds, but the blood-stained tee shirt and blue bandana. She wonders if she should take the tee shirt home or just throw it out here. She makes the decision to leave it in the bag, her ulterior motive for Therese to be the one to decide what to do with it. She is filled with an irrational desire -- a wish for the girl to keep her shirt. _Christ._

She navigates a pile of morning dishes, finds a clean glass and delivers water and a pain pill to Therese. “Take one every four hours. You shouldn’t need these for more than a week for the pain.”

The pain for both of them will unfortunately last much longer. 

Carol asks if she can do anything else. 

“No. Thanks again for everything, Carol. I’ll never forget your kindness.”

Statuesque, Carol waits for something more. “Are you sure I didn’t say anything wrong?” With a weary smile she attempts one more time with feigned good humor, standing in the bedroom doorway squirming mentally.

“No. No, you didn’t.”

“Okay, well, guess I’ll wait for my ride outside then.” Nearly through the front door she stops and heads back inside. At Therese’s desk she finds a pen and paper and writes down her cell number and full name. 

She walks back into the bedroom and sets the paper on the nightstand next to the glass of water and pain meds. “Please call if you need anything.” 

Therese briefly meets her eye and then looks down at her injury. “Okay. Thank you.”

The atmospheric change between them confuses Carol. She looks at a framed black and white photograph above Therese’s bed. It’s an Ansel Adams, a snowy landscape. Easily she pictures herself in the photograph, standing out there in the cold. 

“Take care of yourself, Therese. Maybe we’ll run into each other again.” 

“Yeah. Maybe. Thank you so much for everything. I’ll try to pay it forward.” 

Carol walks outside and waits for her ride. “ _Pay it forward, what the hell?”_ she mutters and feels a harsh chill, though it’s over 60 degrees outside.

* * *

Therese wakes in the middle of the night and hobbles to the bathroom. She ends up in the kitchen for a snack, finding the bag with her bandana and Carol’s tee shirt resting on the floor outside the bedroom. Back in bed, she takes the stained shirt out of the bag and runs fingers in tiny circles over the fabric in sections where it’s not marked with stains from her own dried blood. The piece of paper on the nightstand finds its way into her hands. She studies the shape of every intriguing loop and curve searching for meaning in the slant of the lines that make up the name written there _Carol Aird_. 

Carol splashes another handful of water onto her face. It doesn’t cool her after the intense dream. She slips out of silk night shorts and a matching top and steps into the shower, resting her head against slippery turquoise porcelain tile, cold water running down her body, she watches it wash down the drain.


	4. On Track

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Checking in on everyone a week after the accident at Green Lake.

_The roller derby_ **_track_ ** _is the oval-shaped surface demarcated by an inner and outer boundary wherein the action takes place. R_ _oller derby may be played on a variety of surfaces including polished concrete, wood and sport or skate court (polypropylene tiles that increase wheel grip)._

**Seattle Roller Coaster Girls** , the local roller derby team, begins its new season with practices twice a week: Tuesdays and Thursdays and about two games per month. Therese plans to attend tonight's Thursday practice, exactly one week since her leg injury that required eight stitches after skating into a bench instead of a woman at Green Lake Park.

Her leg pain decreased, but it’s still tender. The lower leg also swells if not elevated often enough. Tonight she’ll attend practice solely as a spectator craving human interaction. She’s counting the days until she can get back on skates. Her doctor says three more weeks to go, which puts her back on wheels October 20th, just one day before her 30th birthday. It feels significant, frosting on the cake.

The cybersecurity analyst worked from home since the accident, throwing herself into an intense project of recommending security enhancements for a client who recently experienced a data breach. She misses being in the office. A few co-workers and derby pals visit, Jay checking in the most, lifting her spirits with twisted humor and groceries. Despite the support she’s receiving, Therese Belivet has never felt lonelier in her entire life.

Evening rolls around and she couldn’t be happier. It’s time to leave for practice. This will be the first driving she’s done since the accident. Slowly she makes her way to the garaged Jeep where she experiences some difficulty getting into the driver’s side without rubbing her injured leg on the seat. After she shuts the door she settles in, discovering the seat and mirrors adjusted to accommodate the shape and size of the last body who sat here. Initially, she doesn’t change the settings, sitting there with her hands on the steering wheel, eyes straight ahead. Remembering. The seat feels strange against her body with imaginings of the curves and shape of the body that last sat here and piloted this ship. She reaches toward the pedals with her left foot, trying to calculate how much shorter her legs are than the previous driver. She figures five, maybe six inches. How difficult it would be for her to drive from this far back. She takes her hands off the wheel, closes her eyes and leans back into the headrest. “Breathe with me, Therese. Just breathe.” 

Eventually she pulls the seat forward and hastily adjusts the rear view mirror down to her eye level. Backing out into the street her stereo blasts Alice and Chains. It’s loud enough to drown out the woman’s voice on replay inside her head. “Breathe. Just breathe with me.”

Therese arrives at Hangar 11 located at Seattle’s historic Magnuson Park. It’s the city’s second largest park with some 300 acres of green space off the shores of Lake Washington. Once a U.S. Naval air station, a ghostly ambience lives within the sections of the park where some of the historic military remains decay, industrial and institutional architecture from WWII. The station, at its operational peak, housed aviation supplies – anything from propellers to parachutes. Hangar 11, the massive structure built in 1939 to house aircraft, now ironically finds itself repurposed as an indoor skating arena for Seattle’s only women’s roller derby team. Commanding officers who served here might well be rolling over in their graves with this knowledge of empowered women skaters competing on an oval track where dive bombers were once kept.

She parks the Jeep as close to Hangar 11 as possible. She’s barely out of the vehicle before a teammate shouts “Cray Zee.” Around here, skaters typically refer to each other with their derby names, hers given because of a reputation for skating extremely fast and aggressive, also, a play on the Zee component of her given name. Often the derby name is short-handed as just Cray or Zee. 

“Holla!” she shouts back to the teammate who goes by the name Holla Pain Yo on the track. An urban planner by day, she dresses up as a sexy stripper during derby competitions, complete with fishnet stockings and a sequin skirt. “Heard you had a fall at the lake.” She gives Therese a hand as they walk into the 20,000-square-foot-hangar. An abbreviated version of the skating accident is narrated to Holla. The woman she avoided on the way to plowing into a park bench is briefly mentioned as someone “walking across lanes and not paying attention.” Beyond that, Holla’s left in the dark, a place she often resides willingly, far from the exhaustion of human drama on and off the track. 

The two-hour practice flies by, Therese seated in a chair against the wall with her foot propped up on another chair. It feels good to be with her team again, laughing and cheering, but it kills her to not be on the floor SKATING forward, backward, practicing stops, blocks, turns and most decidedly, going fast. Being an observer rather than participant, she notices new things about the old hangar, like the large electrical panel on the north wall and the numerous glass windows that are cracked throughout. She imagines what this building must have been like filled with military men servicing aircraft flown in from the front lines, planes landing on the base on the thin air strip not far from the hangar that runs adjacent to Lake Washington. How many of the men who roamed the cement floors of Hangar 11 might still be alive? The sound of noisy skaters overtakes her daydreams and she coasts easily back to 2016.

She misses most about practice is the free skate that follows, some skaters stay after and looping the track while a giant boom box plays a mix of amped-up tunes. Tonight, Therese sits with best pal Jay and they chat and watch the free skate. 

“Thanks for checking in on me so much this week.” Therese confided to her friend the true details about the woman who she collided with, the woman she can’t stop thinking about even though she’s wasting precious time on a spoken-for-heart.

“How ya really doing, Cray? Still hung up on the nurse?” Jay has the reputation for original wit and a sometimes brutal ability to cut through the residual crap in pursuit of the truth or at least the point. 

“Oh, I don’t know.” Therese looks up into the high ceiling of the hangar where pigeons nest in metal rafters and giant hanging lights shine onto the track. “I must sound foolish. Definitely need to move on.”

“The heart is Cray, Zee. Let’s go, ice cream on me. Molly Moon’s, kay?”

Therese smiles and nods, happy for the two most effective cures for the blues: ice cream and a good friend.

* * *

  
  


**Seattle rain rolls in off the coast** like clockwork, arriving Friday morning as Carol is heading into work for the usual 7am twelve-hour-shift. She doesn’t mind. Not this morning. The rain fits her mood. It was exactly one week ago yesterday morning that she met the skater. There was a connection, she thought. Then it changed. She’s racked her brain trying to decipher what went wrong. She was hopeful that leaving her phone number at the condo would produce a call. A growing silence represents the answer. 

Riding the elevator to the east wing of the hospital's fourth floor she wears a professional face, changing into purple scrubs in the nurse’s locker room. Today she’s charge nurse in the NICU, her third 12-hour-shift in a row. She looks forward to the next four days off. Summer and fall are always busy for labor and delivery, so it’s the end of a long haul since June. She looks forward to winter when patient census decreases and she takes big chunks of time off to travel, work on her house and most importantly, spend time with Randy.

“Morning, Carol,” she’s greeted by her best friend, Libby, who works in the adjacent childbirth center. Libby opens her nearby locker. Originally from Liberia and with a difficult-to-pronounce-African-first name, Libby ended up advising patients and medical staff to simply call her by the American nickname. Carol has known few people in her life as encouraging, kind, good-humored and smart as Libby. She is a quiet observer of human nature and a loud source of sound advice.

“Morning Libby. How’s it going?” 

“Wet. I walked. Trying to walk the talk.” She laughs. 

Carol doesn’t laugh as hard as she ordinarily does. Libby senses something’s off.

“Everything okay?” 

Carol looks at her watch. “Listen, is there any chance you could meet me in the cafeteria for lunch today, say 11:30? I could really use your ear.”

“Sure, my friend. See you then.” 

It’s another busy morning in the NICU. Two new infants born to substance abusing mothers, these tiny addicts sadly regular patients in this NICU, were admitted overnight. In addition, there are five babies still recovering in the unit with issues ranging from prematurity to respiratory distress. To complicate matters, one of the morning cuddler volunteers called in sick. Carol finds herself working exclusively with the toughest case of the morning, one of the addiction babies, a boy. She hooks him up to a morphine drip, the first phase of helping him through the withdrawal process. He’ll need extra cuddling and soothing today. Ordinarily she would assign a less senior nurse to work with him. Today she feels drawn to tending to this particular baby. After swaddling him tightly, she cradles him in her arms and begins walking with him in tiny circles, pacing round and round, encircling an allegorical track. She speaks to him softly: “You’re all right. Just breathe.”

Libby waits at a table near one of the far corners of the cafeteria when Carol spots her. It’s a good location to chat without busybody hospital staff overhearing. Carol trusts few people with secrets, especially in this place where 12-hour-shifts on slow days are perfect recipes for overcooked helpings of personal chat and the fire-like spread of gossip. Libby’s not like most people, showing extraordinary discretion and loyalty.

“That looks good,” Carol comments on the kale salad Libby has on her tray. “Still walking the talk, huh?” 

The nurse explains how hard she’s been working trying to stay fit. She joined a club in the summer. “You should join me, Carol.” 

“Oh, no, thanks Libby. Randy has plans for us, all sorts of hiking this fall. In fact, we’re going tomorrow up to Mount Si. Pray I make it up and back. I have a hard time keeping up with him.” 

“How is Randy? Are you seeing enough of him, Carol?”

“Well, it’s been difficult, since the divorce.” Carol begins to finish her thought when another nurse from labor and delivery shows up.

“Hi guys, mind if I sit down?” She joins the table. Carol lets out an internal _For Fuck’s Sake_ sigh. The woman is a young nurse with a penchant for sharing insignificant details about her day. Carol and Libby sit through 15 painful minutes worth. Finally she leaves. _Thank God._

“Libby, how about you, how have you been?” Carol realizes she’s been monopolizing the conversation prior to the interruption.

“Finish what you were saying about Randy. You said it’s been difficult since the divorce.” 

Carol takes a sip of iced water, the temperature matching the topic of a difficult divorce that’s left her cold and lonely. “Well, it’s been almost two years since the divorce, but some days it feels like it was last week.” 

“How do you think Randy feels about it all?” 

“I don’t know, he doesn’t want to talk much about it. I did tell you Harris is remarrying?” 

“No, you didn’t.” 

Carol explains that her ex-husband’s girlfriend had a baby last month. “They’re getting married sometime soon. I don’t know exactly when. Don’t really give a flip. But it’s been hard on Randy, all the changes.” 

“How old is he now?”

“He’s turning 13 on the 21st of this month -- our anniversary day. Remember, we’ve called his birthday that since the day he was born. An anniversary of the day we met anyway.”

“I remember – his birthday and your Giving Birth Day. So sweet that a boy his age doesn’t mind celebrating an anniversary with his mother.” Libby’s full lips extend out into the universe with the widest, warmest of perfectly imperfect smiles, a gap between Libby’s front teeth.

“Well, he’s still my sweetheart, even at almost 13. He’s sensitive and always looking out for his old mother. Often asks if I’m dating. I only see him on weekends during the school year though. We all decided he needs to stay with his dad in Bellevue for school. Fortunately during summer – he’s all mine!”

“So, are you dating?”

“Talk about getting to the point.” Carol moves her chair in when an anesthesiologist she recognizes tries to squeeze in between her and the person sitting at a table behind her. She half smiles, relieved he doesn’t try to join them. People ... _men_ ... often try to attach themselves to her lunch break. “There was that hospital administrator guy six months ago,” she continues, “but no spark. The people I meet either work in this damn place or are new parents and, well, I’m not looking for a threesome.” She chuckles at her joke and takes another drink of tea. “Too much shop talk, I already went down that road. Not traveling that road again. But, Libby, something happened, oh, you’ll think I’m crazy.”

“Always. Go on.” 

Carol lowers her voice and provides the details of the near collision and its aftermath, sharing how confused she feels. “I’m sure it’s not mutual. Plus, we have nothing in common, Libby. She’s at least ten years younger, her car and home are a complete mess, she’s into all sorts of sports, one of them roller derby. God sake, roller derby! And, get this, her job is in cybersecurity. You know how much I despise computers and screens.” 

Libby shakes her head, in quiet reflection of Carol’s reputation for having a short temper with computer malfunctions. “You call the damn help desk,” her response to nurses or unit secretaries whenever anything e-related occurs on the unit. 

“One thing you have in common, dummy, is you’re both women.” Libby smiles deviously and nudges Carol with an elbow. 

“Yes, well, there’s THAT. I’ve never been with a woman, had crushes before, most recently on that gal from the lab.”

“We’re all in love with Sheena,” Libby laughs, the beautiful gap between her teeth seems to grow with her perceptiveness. 

“Yes, don’t we all want her to draw our blood? But seriously, Libby, I’ve never felt quite like this. I keep thinking about her and I don’t just mean thinking about her, but thinking about … well doing … things.” Carol looks around making sure no one nearby is listening. “Jesus, what’s happening to me, Libby? I told you I’m going crazy.” She looks through her water glass feeling transparent, having relieved too much. “I keep checking my phone like some ridiculous, daft high school girl.” 

“This girl may have a messy car and house, but you’re a hot mess, lady girl! You know where she lives, so march your skinny, daft ass over there and bring her a little something, a get-well-gesture. Say you’re checking on her leg. You need clarity or you’ll explode all over this wall – see, now _that’s_ messy!” She points to the gray wall behind them. “Why not pop in on your way to this mountain you and Randy are climbing tomorrow? Your exit if it gets weird is simple: ‘Can’t stay long, my son’s in the car.’”

Carol smiles. “Damn, yes. How I knew you’d have good advice. That plan’s not half bad. It makes me seem concerned, but not too intrusive or needy – being on my way someplace else and all.” She recounts a college professor who once gave the class advice she’s never forgotten: “I’d rather be sorry for something I said or did than sorry for not saying or doing something.”

There’s a sashay in Carol’s walk when she returns to the NICU. She already knows what she’ll bring Therese tomorrow, the “get-well-something” Libby suggested. She’ll pick it up after work. 

* * *

Therese and Jay go sit at a table at their favorite ice cream joint. “Who else could this Randy possibly be other than Carol’s husband, partner or lover ...?” Therese returns to mulling over a topic she claimed she’d moved on from.

“Well, Cray.” Jay puts on a goofy face that typically precedes her saying something profound or insane – or both. “Ever think you’re assuming you know what this woman was talking about? There are more types of anniversaries than weddings.” Jay does one of her annoying voices, accenting the wrong syllables as she frequently does. She talks and laughs too loud, making a nearby patron stare-glare. Therese chokes down salted caramel ice cream. “Laughter really is the best medicine,” she says and wipes caramel from her chin. 

“Cray, you don’t really know if this woman is seriously involved with anyone. You know what they say about assuming? So, get off your ass and find out.” 

She decides that she might call or text Carol. Maybe tomorrow. Just to check in, let her know how the leg is doing. 

  
  


Carol goes into a trendy shop down the street from the hospital. She looks for a new bandana or scarf. It doesn’t take her long to find the perfect one. Perhaps it finds her. She’ll deliver it tomorrow, before the hike with Randy.

**_“Brand New Key” by Melanie - Excerpt_ **

_Well, I got a brand new pair of roller skates_

_You got a brand new key_

_I think that we should get together_

_And try them out you see_

  
  
  



	5. Fall Small

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carol drops in on Therese on her way to hike with Randy.

**_Fall Small_ ** _ – Roller Derby term for falling with legs and arms pulled in and tucked as much as possible. This technique is taught to new skaters to prevent a tendency to flail when falling, which is common to new skaters. Falling small also avoids penalties that may result from tripping an opposing skater. _

Carol arrives home Friday night after a twelve-hour shift and finds her son reading, sprawled out on the couch munching on a healthy snack he found in the healthy snack drawer. It’s all a show for his mother, his timing precise; she’ll think he’s making nutritious choices. After she’s in bed he’ll pillage for sweets, knowing all of her “secret” hiding places: a Hershey bar in the laundry tucked behind fabric softener and his favorite, peanut M&M’s candy buried in a vase. 

She nearly trips on a skateboard in the middle of the living room. “Hi sweetheart. Trying to kill me?” She picks up the board. “This looks new. Since when are you into skateboarding?” The boy’s forehead is kissed, his brown hair playfully tousled.

“Dad and Ali gave it to me as an early birthday present.” He shrugs. “They said it will help me get my head out of books.” He speaks with his head in a book.

“They said that, did they?” It was difficult enough raising Randy when married to her fastidious ex-husband. The addition of his perky, soon-to-be new wife makes an irksome and odd number of players inside a crowded parenting bubble. Randy detects his mother’s harried tone. He rides it out just like he does the growing waves of tension he feels lately from his father.

“Dad get you dinner?”

“Yeah, we ate at Zeek’s. Ali and the baby came too.”

Carol changes the subject, not interested in a conversation about Randy’s new brother as much for her son’s sake as for her own. The emotion she feels cannot be categorized as jealousy. How could she be jealous of her ex, a 49-year-old man, with a BABY? Visions of inflexible, orthopedic surgeon Harris Aird changing mucky diapers at 3am and parenting a ten-year-old by the time he’s 60 are priceless sources of her personal joy. What she can’t wrap her head around is the concept of her son having a sibling who isn’t related to  _ her _ . It sits there between them, the idea of a new and unrelated relative.

“What do you say we leave for Mt. Si tomorrow around 8:30? We can hit Mighty-O donuts on the way out of town?”

“That early?” he groans.

“Well, I need to make a quick stop to a friend’s on the way. It won’t take long. I promise.”

“What friend?”

“It’s no one you know. A new friend … well, I suppose she’s not really a friend ... just someone I’m checking in on who’s injured.” She rambles, flitting about filling water bottles for the hike and avoiding details about the woman. Randy picks up on an unfamiliar combination of excitement and fear in her, his mother skating around in circles. It’s rare for the near-teen to find his mother’s social life of interest, but Randy Aird is quite worried about his mother’s recent  _ lack _ of a social life in a similar way that his father wishes he read less books and joined more teams.

“What’s her injury?”

“Hmm?” She stalls, but knows she can’t sidestep his curiosity for long. He’s stubborn and doesn’t easily forget, just like his father (Reason #19 she divorced him). 

“Randy, it’s the woman, the inline skater I nearly collided with at the lake. You remember I told you about her last weekend?”

“Oh, yeah, awesome, dude. Was there a lot of blood? How many stitches?” He sits up and ditches the book. 

“Dude,” she raises a disapproving eyebrow, “give me your phone. Dad emailed me, he thinks you’re addicted to your electronics. I want you to sleep and not be up all night zombie-ing with screens and all of this antisocial media nonsense. Hand it over.” Hands on hips, she waits.

Reluctantly, he acquiesces. “Can I at least use my Kindle to read?”

“Fine, but don’t stay up too late. We need to get an early start,” says the woman who stays up regularly past midnight reading.

Water and snacks are placed inside a daypack and set by the front door. She slips the new bandana she found for Therese into the pile and falls asleep with a closed book on her chest and remnants of the practiced lines in her head.  _ I saw this bandana and thought of you. How’s your leg? _

Across the hall, like Mother like son, Randy is asleep reading with a closed Kindle on his chest.

* * *

Therese’s Saturday morning gets off to a slow start. Derby mates Jay and Holla plan to pick her up for breakfast. Since the accident, they notice a change in her, how she’s off her game, not herself, sensing more than her leg muscles suffer from an invisible atrophy. Their latest mission is to lift these atrophied spirits. It’s more Jay’s idea. Holla’s usually up for the ride. 

As happens when one runs late, expected friends arrive early. 

Holla knocks. Therese moves slow in answer, reaching the door at her hobbling pace.

“You’re early.”

“Sorry.” Holla walks past Therese on auto-pilot making herself at home, headed for the refrigerator.

“Where’s Jay?” 

“She’s waiting in the car, in the zone listening to that God awful electronic dance music she loves. I was assigned to bring your butt out to the car.” Holla’s head disappearing inside the fridge, appalled at the lack of anything passing her strict nutritious test. 

“Looks like Jay’s been shopping for you, obviously.” She holds up chocolate milk.

“Yeah.”

“Well, I’m getting diabetes just looking at this stuff.” 

“Listen, Holla, I’m stepping in the shower. Had a long night, hardly slept. You better let her know I’m running late. Warning you both it takes me forever since I have to wrap my leg in plastic to keep the stitches dry.” Grumbling, Therese limps to the bathroom.

“Sure. Take your time. We’ll wait. She’ll figure it out.” Holla pours a glass of orange juice and plops down on the couch and quickly begins devouring an article on soy milk in one of the health and fitness magazines on the coffee table.

Outside, Jay’s blissfully bobbing her head, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel and singing, oblivious to the passage of time or the Audi station wagon, the one driven by Carol Aird that slides into an adjacent space. 

“Well,” Carol says and looks at her son, “here we are.” Internally she’s considering bagging this whole event, the gift bag on her lap and a good case of nerves in her gut. “She … my friend, might not even be home.” She looks at her son again, her lip twitches and she concocts a private pro/con list for leaving. “Well, here I go.” She remains seated. 

“Dude, are you okay?” Randy watching his still-seated mother hold the door latch without actually opening it. He also notices she wears lipstick and light eye makeup. Odd for a planned day hike with your son.

“Yes, I’m fine.” She wonders if he’d love her any less if he knew the truth of this little detour. “Be right back.” Finally, she leaves the security of the car and only looks back once, just prior to reaching the condo. She waves, but her son doesn’t see her. He’s too amused watching the woman singing in the car beside theirs, her window rolled down halfway. He rolls his window down a bit to hear her better. 

Carol knocks at the condo front door rehearsing the greeting she’ll use.

“Chill baby, baby,” Holla yells from inside, assuming it’s Jay. She swings the door open wide and abruptly shouts “Boo!” before realizing she’s got the wrong girl.

Stunned and rigid, Carol appears like a tree with a gift bag hanging off one of her willowy limbs. She manages a flustered “Hello” before commencing with a long stare at the young woman, a natural beauty who holds a glass of orange juice casually like this sudden meeting was planned for weeks.

“Well, hello there to you,” Holla smiles, flashing the quickest wink. “Sorry if I startled you, I was expecting someone else.” 

_ Me too,  _ Carol doesn’t respond.

With innate charm, the kind one cannot ever _ learn _ , Holla knuckle knocks on the top of her head, mocking the little mix-up. She winks for the second time and takes a sip of juice.

“I was looking for Therese. Do I not have the right unit?” Carol rechecks the condo number, spotting glimpses of familiar living room furniture and disassembled laptops beyond the young woman. 

“You’re in the right place. She’s in the shower and moving pretty slow this morning. She had a late night.” Wink number three and another sip of juice. To the receiver, this last wink comes off as suggestive and doesn’t convey the truth. Winking for Holla is automatic, like a tic. She winks to  _ everyone _ : men, women, children, pets ... cloud formations. Carol’s merely the latest in a long string of victims misled by an innocent “eye tease” as Jay likes to explain it. Unfortunately in this particular interaction, the wink damage is done. The receiver inaccurately decodes its meaning as:  _ The woman in the shower had a late night because I kept her awake. IF you know what I mean? Wink, wink. _

“Oh. I would have called first,” Carol stammers, “but I don’t have her number. I shouldn’t have come over unannounced and this early. I’m sorry … for the intrusion. Will you give her this?” She hands over the bandana gift bag as if it’s on fire, yet drawing her hand away with the heavy second thoughts of hesitation. It confuses Holla who reaches for it with her free hand, the one not holding juice. “Tell her Carol from the ah …lake stopped by to see how the leg is doing.”

“You’re welcome to come in and wait for her,” Holla offers, the faint sound of a distant shower running full steam ahead down the hall.

“Thanks, but,” Carol backs up, “I really must run, my son is waiting in the car.” She’s about to extricate herself from this claustrophobic porch space without knowing how little porch space remains behind her. Another step too many takes her too close to the edge.

“Watch it.” In a split second, Holla turns roller derby Athena and reaches out a hand as if assisting a teammate, grabbing the stranger’s wrist and pulling her forward, hard. The gift bag drops and the glass of orange juice goes airborne before dripping down the nearly fallen woman’s shirt. With mortifying gasps of relief and blurted “Shit,” and “Thank You,” Carol Air takes off. She appears to be walking fast, but in her own mind, she’s all out running.

“Wait,” a fading voice from the porch yells out to her. _  
_

**“Creep” by Radiohead - Excerpt**

_ But I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo, _

_ What the hell am I doing here? _

_ I don’t belong here. _

_ Ooh, ooh _

_ She’s running out again, _

_ She’s running out _

_ She run run run run _

_ Run _

_  
  
_

Jay looks up from texting a friend, newly pink highlighted hair whips across her face, catching the scene of a flustered woman with good bone structure and sad eyes rushing into the adjacent car. A kid in the passenger seat notices Jay watching, they both quickly turn away. “Thanks for waiting, Randy.” Jay can faintly make out the words the woman says to the boy before the station wagon slips away. _  
_

“Some woman was here to see you.” Holla tells Therese fresh out of the shower.

“A woman to see  _ me _ ?” She’s unconvinced and rubs a towel through wet hair waiting for a punchline. 

“Some blonde, ‘Carol from  _ The … Ah Lake _ ?’” She mimics the flighty visitor’s exact, clumsy wording. “Here,” she hands Therese the gift bag, “she asked me to give you this. Seemed a bit of a nervous wreck, almost fell off your porch.”

“Oh, man, that was her, wasn’t it? The nurse?” Jay, having recently joined her friends inside, begins to piece the story together. “Goddammit, Holla, why didn’t you tell her to wait?”

“I Goddam did, Miss Manners, but she took off anyway. Nurse who?” Holla isn’t actually interested in the particulars regarding _The Ah Lake_ _Woman_ , refusing to be drawn into any of Jay’s theatrics. She flips through a health magazine, looking up occasionally with an obligatory nod.

Therese touches the bandana fabric, utterly crushed she missed the visitor. “Jesus, what crappy timing for her to stop by while I was showering.” She sits beside Holla on the couch. “What else did she say? There must be something more?”

“Hmm? Don’t think so.” Holla by this juncture losing more participation points as she’s pretty well immersed herself in another article, this one on workout regimens:  _ Feel the Burn or Fine-Tune the Form? _

“Christ!” Jay rips the  _ Women’s Health _ magazine from Holla. 

“Chill out Godzilla, I barely talked to her. “Wait, she did say something about her son, said he was waiting in the car.” 

“How could you leave something like that out!? Crap, Holla.” Jay shakes her head with disapproval and Holla shrugs an apology. “Zee,” Jay’s face lights up, “that’s RANDY! They were parked beside me. And now that I think about it, I heard her call him, the kid, by that name when she was getting in the car. He’s a cute little shit. Maybe 11, 12? Then again, what do I know about kids, right?”

Holla lifts her head slightly from the magazine and purses her lips, a subtle agreement that Jay notices. It stings her like all the minutiae of things Holla innocently does that mean nothing more than a wink. 

“She has a son?” Therese says before sinking into the couch. “She’s probably married then.”

“Don't be all dumb again. You were already wrong once about her.” Jay paces, her arms folded, like an attorney cross examining. “She looked messed up, hurt, when she was driving away. You need to call, text. Something.”

* * *

__  
  


On the hour drive to Mt. Si Carol tries to hide her disappointment. Randy asks several times if

she’s okay.

“Sure. I’m fine.”

“Did something happen with your friend? Wasn’t home?” He almost asks about the stain on her shirt, the one she tried to wipe away with a tissue while they were at a stoplight.

“She was busy so I just dropped off a little get well gift.” She smiles, her eyes on the road, her mind elsewhere.

Randy feels his mother’s sadness, the moods she tries to cover with contrived smiles always visible with his psychological zoom lens. He reaches across the car seat and grabs her hand and squeezes it. “How about the first one to the summit gets to pick where we go for dinner?” 

“Deal.” She squeezes back.

Halfway up the mountain her spirits lift – seeing the beauty in nature and the sensitivity of her son, the way he slows his pace near the summit so they reach it together. So much for bets. She breathes in the crisp air fully into her lungs and breathes out pity. They share breathtaking views of the Cascade Mountains and Mt. Rainier in the distance. 

If she only knew about the text message that waits for her. It’s capable of raising her spirits to rival the 4,100 foot elevation where she and Randy stand. The text will sit in her phone queue until she has cell coverage back on Westbound I-90. Randy will ask if she wants him to check her phone.

“Yeah, better look in case there’s anything from your dad.”

“Nope. A few from Libby. Oh, and there’s a number I don’t recognize. Want me to read it?” He doesn’t look at the words, distracted by the mountain pass views, the deciduous trees with their changing colors mixed with a steady stream of Evergreens.

“Nah, it’s probably spam. I’ll look later.” She glances down briefly at her shirt. Even though the juice dried, making the stain barely visible, she still knows it’s there.


	6. Pace Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens following Therese's text message. Will their bad timing improve?

**_Footnote: Pace line is a line of skaters approximately arm’s length apart keeping the same speed. Often used in practice drills._ **

They’re nearly back in Seattle after hiking Mt. Si and ready to stop for dinner. Carol’s phone buzzes again. “It’s another message from Libby, Mom. She wants to meet for a walk.” Randy’s eye wanders up to the prior message, the one his mother suspected as spam from the unfamiliar number. This time he skims it. 

“Is Therese the name of your new friend, the stitches lady?” He mispronounces the final syllable’s zee as an ess sound.

“Well, yes, how did you know --?” 

“She texted, what you thought was spam. Want me to read it to you?”

It’s difficult to keep one’s composure while driving under the influence of an impulse to pull the car over and dance in the middle of the street. It’s also hard to say no to a son’s innocent and considerate offer, though the nature of the situation requires delicate footwork. 

“Sure,” Randy’s mother plays it cool, dismissing absurd dance scenes, reality the steady press of her foot against the brake pedal. Part of her wants to keep the message, whatever it is, private. It’s odd having a preteen read it out loud, but it seems harmless enough. Also, she’s dying to hear it. 

_Carol, sorry I missed you. Thank you for stopping by and for the beautiful bandana. I would really like to properly thank you for taking care of me after my fall. Was wondering if you might be free to join me for dinner tomorrow night at my condo? We can order take out and not talk about my stitches coming out on Monday. :) If not, maybe some other time. Hope you are well. -Therese Belivet_

He finishes reading, botching the pronunciation of sender’s last name too. “That’s a nice message, don’t you think, Mom? Sounds like she wants to be friends.” He turns and smiles, rays from the sinking sun show off the light highlights in his brown hair, sparks of the golden shade more like his mother’s. He’s certain the invitation will make her happy. “You’re free tomorrow night, right? I can text her back now.” He holds the phone out at the ready.

“Hold on there, life coach, I’ll reply later. Whatever’s gotten into you?” She smirks at his boldness, feeling the unclear boundaries he might very well cross in order to push her socially.

“Say you’ll go, Mom, okay?” He sets the phone down in the console between them. “You, like, _seriously_ need more friends than Libby and me.” 

“All right,” she says, spinning the wheel to park the car at their favorite gyros joint, overplaying a poker face of defeat at his coaxing her off the high dive, not knowing how much she actually wants to plunge into the water. “I guess I’ll, _like_ , say yes,” she grabs the phone from him. “Last one inside pays,” she jumps out of the car and runs. He doesn’t stand a chance; she’s easily the first one inside. 

* * *

Therese carefully folds Carol’s gray tee shirt after taking it out of the dryer. She didn’t expect her own blood, deeply soaked into the fabric, to wash away this easily. She’s disappointed seeing the stain removal success. The aptly and ironically titled “Stain First Aid Chart” on MarthaStewart.com deserves the credit, or the blame, for the exceptional advice to soak the garment in sodium -- common table salt -- and soapy water. _Domestic guru Martha, damn you for preventing my own proteins from forever embedding into that fabric._

She’s waited all day for a reply to her message, the one cast out into a digital sea after yet another instance of rotten timing or some colossal and innocent miscommunication between them. Each time her phone buzzes, she experiences that familiar high, expectation to find the right fish in her net. Then the low after discovering herring rather than exotic freshwater fish swimming in the pool. Finally, evening rolls in, washing ashore a short reply, words she rereads many times, searching for profound new meaning in the smallest preposition or pronoun.

_I’d love to have dinner tomorrow. I’ll bring the wine, just tell me the time I should arrive._

* * *

Carol trims Randy’s hair in the kitchen. He squirms. “Don’t move. How can you see with hair hanging in your eyes all the time? I’m surprised Dad let it get this long.”

“Oh, he wanted it shorter, but Ali thinks it’s hip for boys my age to have long bangs.”

“She does, huh?” Carol considers how changed, or better yet, whipped, Harris Aird seems. He would never let go of something so small, like the length of Randy’s bangs, during their marriage. In _that_ difficult union, she was the one who more often conceded.

“Mom, are you seeing the Stitches Lady, tonight?”

“You _are_ obsessed. Maybe you’d like to go instead?” 

“Cool, I want to see her bashed up leg and the gnarly stitches.” Carol flicks the back of his head with the comb. She snips two inches revealing intense pale eyes, like her own.

“Okay, mister, time for us to meet Libby for a walk at the lake. Bring your skateboard – even though I hate those things. Don’t get me started on concussions and broken limbs.”

“Mom, I suck at it so you don’t need to worry.”

“Who says you suck?”

“You will, after you see how bad I am.” As much as his mother dislikes skateboards, it pains her to see his confidence broken. 

The first thing Libby does when she sees them is give Randy a big hug. It’s been over a year since she last saw him at a hospital picnic. “Who is this handsome man?” He grins, enjoying the special attention, not getting much most weekdays from his father and stepmother preoccupied with a new baby. Libby and Carol watch as he continually falls off the new skateboard.

“Carol, don’t you know a person comfortable on wheels?” Libby whispers, “Perhaps she knows skateboards too? This boy needs assistance.”

When Randy runs even farther up ahead to feed ducks, Libby’s interrogation officially begins. “Spill it, what happened with …” She clears her throat. “... the skater girl?”

“Let’s talk about you instead. I keep monopolizing our conversations. I want to know how your fiction writing is going. Did you send the latest project to a publisher yet?”

“Phooey. You can’t leave me hanging. Did you go over to check on her leg as I suggested?”

“Oh bother, Libby. Fine. Yes, I did. Are you happy?” She explains details of nearly falling on her face on the porch. When she gets to the part about meeting for dinner tonight, Libby claps her hands like a small child.

“Don’t get too excited. I’m not convinced she isn’t seeing the woman who answered her door. Libby, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I feel so young and yet so … _old_. ”

“You’re like a little baby bird. Just be yourself and let whatever’s supposed to happen … happen.”

* * *

“Fuck, Jay, please help,” she’ll be here in less than eight hours,” a panicked call received in the morning. Jay can’t say no when summoned to assist a friend with a bum leg who wants to make her condo more presentable to the evening’s dinner quest. 

Jay only helps for two hours, petering out, she reclines on the couch, thumbing through an outdated _Adventure Cyclist_ magazine found lodged under a cushion. “Keep it up, Zee. You're doing great.” She yells encouragement while lying flat on her ass.

“You can leave now since you’re annoying me.”

“Good, cuz I gotta pick up Holla. She wants to go to the dog shelter. Again. Here. We. Go.”

“What about the two old dogs she already has?” Therese refers to Melvin and Trixie. One’s three-legged, the other blind. 

“Precisely! I need to go with her so she doesn’t adopt more. Jesus, Zee. She. Drives. Me. Nuts.”

 _Need to?_ Therese remains quiet on the interesting word choice. “If she drives you nuts, why are you going?”

“Man, wish I knew. Somethin’ ‘bout Holla’s sad, brown puppy eyes. It makes me want to save her from all the dogs. Okay, chief, try not to play doctor with the nurse, kay?”

“Get out, Jay.”

* * *

Randy’s stepmother picks him up at 4pm. When she enters the living room, carrying the new baby in its car seat carrier, Carol can’t help noticing how trim the new mother’s figure appears this soon after childbirth. She nearly compliments her but knows it will only lead to a discussion of Ali’s job as a personal trainer and fitness instructor and worse, her dance-themed classes. “Sweating to Samba” tops the list as a definite no. The last time the topic of dance arose, Ali tried to rope her into bringing nurses from the labor and delivery unit and the NICU to a free session. Carol learned very young a simple lesson: nothing’s free. She keeps her comments baby-related, bending down to make cooing sounds to Randy’s half brother.

“Rand Canyon, you ready?” Ali’s nickname for Randy was mildly cute the first time Carol heard it. Now it’s like long, pointy nails on a chalkboard. Ali plays nervously with her perfectly bobbed blonde hair as they walk Randy to her car. “Carol,” Ali says, opening the backseat to place the baby on board, “Harris needs to talk to you. It’s about Randy’s birthday and a change of plan. He’d like you to ring or message him tomorrow.” She doesn’t meet Carol’s eye, the way someone can’t just before they do something really shitty.

She won’t make a fuss about it. Not in front of Randy. How convenient for Harris to make Ali the messenger of this bomb drop of a suggested change of plan. 

Ali cackles with raw nerves at the lack of a verbal response from Carol who stands beside the car with folded arms.

“Well, you have a good rest of your weekend then,” Ali over smiles and reaches in unexpectedly to hug Carol. They stand like two awkward preteens at a school dance, the shorter woman doing most of the embracing, the other simply bracing herself to get through with it. 

Carol waves to Randy, standing on the curb, until the car is out of sight. She cries as she does every time he goes back to his dad’s, heading back into an empty house. Today the tears stop sooner than usual and she’s reminded of the way a teary-eyed young woman looked at her in that exam room. She pictures the anxious skater embracing her, wrapping a single arm around her back, barely and completely touching her.

* * *

 **The Dinner**

When Therese opens the door, Carol looks different than the woman she cursed over a week ago. But she remains just the same too, smiling with intense eyes that communicate in quick glances a stream of messages that intrigue and confuse her. They meet for the first time on new, unsettling ground.

“Hi. I’m Carol.” She holds a bottle of wine in one hand and extends the other to greet the host. 

“I’m Therese.” 

Their fingers slip apart after shaking hands and Carol steps through the doorway, surprised to see what appears to be an entirely different condo, recognizing immediately that this visit caused a new ordering of things, dismantled laptops and clothing no longer in roaming piles and the kayak paddles neatly against a corner rather than the couch. She wonders how long it took to transform the living space, imagining maniacal cleaning and an online consultation with Martha Stewart, her vision only somewhat close to reality.

“Can I take your jacket?” 

“Yes, thank you.” The dinner guest slips out of the navy blazer in a way reminiscent of how she slithered snake-like out of her tee-shirt-bandage last week. Her entire body pivots and shifts as though choreographed, performing with the likes of Beyoncé, a flash mob scene and the dance entitled simply: “Take Off the Coat.” Pupils dilate, devouring the scene displayed across a big screen with Therese seated in the front row stuffing popcorn into a gaping mouth.

Carol holds out her blazer, standing in jeans and a white oxford shirt, curious why the girl stares at her, her mouth slightly open. “Therese?”

“Oh, sorry.” She takes the blazer and hangs it up in the entry closet.

“How is your leg? Did it swell much?”

“Yes, it feels much better today, thanks. Luckily my boss let me work from home the first couple days, when it was swollen the most. I’m a little nervous to get the stitches out tomorrow. You know me and hospitals.”

“Don’t worry about the stitches, it will be quick. Can I see how it’s healing?”

“Sure.” She hobbles to the couch considering the oddity of showing the person partly responsible for the injury how it’s healing.

Carol kneels beside a rising yoga pant leg. Threads sewn into flesh come into view. “You’ve been keeping it clean, I see. It looks good.” A hand lingers just above the stitching, a wish suspended for a finger or two to gently ride across or just above the eight in-and-out looped thread tracks. Carol shudders. She stands erect, disposing of impropriety, returning to a state of repression and respectability. 

They agree on fettuccine from a nearby Italian restaurant that delivers. While Therese orders, Carol meanders around the living room looking at framed pictures, many group shots of Therese and friends on some kind of outdoor adventure. A black and white photo shows her skating on a derby track– she’s leaning low, going around a corner. Carol lifts the frame off the end table, looking at it carefully, admiring a killer instinct the girl afraid of hospitals seems to possess. There’s another framed photo next to it of Therese and two women, a close-up. She recognizes the woman in the middle immediately, the one who answered the door, the “winker.” The photo captures a different side of her, a depth and sadness in her eyes. The other friend, with spiky-hair and multiple non-matching-earrings, looks over at Therese, both of them smiling and laughing so hard that Therese’s eyes are closed -- the bond between them apparent. The woman in the center, winker, looks altogether left out. It’s an interesting moment captured that makes Carol keenly interested in the nature of the relationship among the three.

“What a beautiful label,” Therese says, opening the bottle of L’Ecole No. 41 chardonnay. 

“It’s from a winery near Walla Walla. Do you know of it?”

“I don’t know that much about wine.”

“Oh,” Carol says, the list of things they don’t have in common grows.

“But I’d like to learn. Tell me about the winery,” she searches for glasses in the kitchen. Carol, seated at a counter stool recounts a description of the winery, how a French Canadian community settled in the Eastern Washington town and built a schoolhouse there in 1915. The winery operates out of the historic school building. 

Carol takes the first sip, her lips colliding with delicate stemware, planting a lip print, light pink lipstick on the tip of the glass. In the morning, several fingers will glide across the mark and daydream about traveling to a certain winery with the person belonging to those lips. 

“This is an interesting photograph.” Carol floats the first tentacle, feelers looking for the significance of the two other women pictured there.

“Oh, that’s me with Jay, the co-worker and teammate I told you about, the one you texted for me,” she points to the spiky-haired woman with mismatched earrings. “And, Holla. You probably remember her from yesterday?” 

“Yes, I recognize her.” 

A pause between them occurs, neither wanting to revisit the strange circumstances of the prior day’s impromptu morning visit. 

“Well,” Therese continues with a description of the photograph, “we were on a San Diego road trip last year.”

Carol looks amused. “Holla you said?”

“Sorry, yeah, she’s also on the team. It’s shorthand for her derby name, Holla Pain Yo. We all tend to call each other shortened versions, even off the track. Her real name is Darby.”

“Is she your roommate?” _Or do you have sleepovers?_

“Oh, God no. She and Jay came by yesterday to take me to breakfast. I could not live with either of them. Jay talks too much and Holla needs her space. Plus, I like living alone.”

Carol nods. A foreign, untranslatable expression alters her face. How can she describe the gradual stages of independence and dependence she’s experienced, the freedom of her own first apartment without roommates followed by the joys of cohabitation and motherhood before the pain and eventual adaptation to a fractured family? Mostly she thinks of the current crippling sadness when her son leaves to live with her ex. She diverts to the safety of more questions about the girl’s skating family. “And Jay is short for...?” 

“Jacklyn Jaroneck – so of course Jar-o-neck is her skating name.”

“Of course,” Carol chuckles at the name, though she finds all of the derby references strange. She can’t relate.

“So, did you, or do you skate?” Therese searching for common ground.

“Heavens, no, not since I was around ten. I had a pair of white boot skates, with pink pom-poms tied to the laces.”

“That’s cute.” 

“We wouldn’t have been friends, would we?” Carol laughs.

“No.” 

  
The food arrives. Therese carefully dishes out pasta and garlic bread onto two white plates and they sit at the table across from each other. Twisting noodles around her fork, Therese takes a turn doing the probing. “Holla mentioned you have a son, he was waiting in the car when you were here?”

“Yes, Randy. I share custody with my ex-husband.” She talks openly, trusting

Therese with details about the strain of her son living ten miles away during the week. “He’s a sensitive, perceptive soul, my Randy. He butts heads with his father lately. Harris, my ex, would love for Randy to be athletic.” The skateboard is mentioned.

“I grew up on roller skates _and_ skateboards.” Therese beams.

“Maybe you could give Randy some pointers? If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, that is.” Another of Libby’s ideas executed. 

“I’d love to, anytime. I could even take him to Hangar 11, where the Coasters practice and compete. I have keys so we can go anytime, rain or shine. He’d have a whole track to practice on. I guess I should meet him first.”

“I’m sure he’d like that very much,” she leaves out Randy’s interest in leg wounds, stitches and her lack of a social life.

“Therese?” she sets down her fork. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“When I asked you if I’d said something to offend you when I drove you home, after the hospital visit, you said no ... but, I just feel you weren’t being honest with me. You know?”

It’s difficult to answer with the truth as it will reveal the cards in the young woman’s hand, all of them the same suit: _hearts_. She squirms physically and mentally.

“I overheard you on the phone, talking to Randy, and I didn’t know it was your son. You said you had an anniversary to celebrate. It just made me feel even more like I was intruding on your time and I assumed you were not in the market for new _friends_.” 

“I see.” Carol responds with a smile that’s so overtly muted, it’s actually smug. She goes on to talk about her son, clarifying the meaning of their anniversary. “Too much time as a labor and delivery nurse, I guess. I’ve celebrated a lot of birthdays with infants and their parents. It really is the day you meet your parents … or parent. I look at birthdays differently than most people.”

Therese comments how special Randy must be, asking his age, his interests, how much time they spend together.

“He's turning 13 on the 21st of this month.”

“What?” Therese looks startled. 

“He’s turning 13 later this month.”

“Later? Exactly when again?”

“The 21st.”

Therese excuses herself, saying she'll be right back. When she returns she’s holding out her driver's license. “Look at my DOB.” 

“Son of a --! What are the odds? You share our anniversary.” Carol digests the extraordinary surprise of the discovery, noticing the year Therese was born. Thirteen years separate them. 

They lose track of time talking into the night. Just after midnight, Carol makes the first move to leave. “I really should be getting home.”

“Before you go, I have something for you.” Therese gets a bag containing the cleaned gray tee shirt and a new Seattle Roller Coasters derby shirt gift. Carol stands by the door getting back into her blazer, ready to blaze out before she does something reckless.

“Here. For you,” Therese hands her the bag. 

“Oh, Therese, you didn’t need to wash the shirt.” She holds up the skating souvenir tee next. “I love it. You shouldn’t have.” She’s secretly disappointed to see her shirt not only returned, but cleaned of all traces of the skater. She smiles, unsure if she should hug the gift giver in thanks. She turns the doorknob. “Good night, Therese.”

“Carol?”

“Yes?”

“This will sound strange, but would you mind if I kept your tee shirt? Stupid, I know. I can’t explain. Suddenly I want to keep it to remember meeting you. If you wouldn’t mind that is.” She looks down at Carol’s shoes and feels any ounce of coolness she ever possessed in her entire life draining from her, blood rushes closer to the surface of her skin. 

The tee shirt extends to her without a word. Their fingers briefly graze before Carol pulls her hand away. 

“Thank you again for everything,” Therese says, trying to make their connection extend beyond the approaching sense of closure. She takes a step forward with her injured leg and extends an arm around Carol, as she did in the hospital exam room. 

“Good night, Therese.” It is as much a sigh as speech, Carol slowly the first to pull away.

“Good night.”

Sitting in her car in the condo parking lot, Carol holds the derby tee shirt, tracing the outline of the team logo – a girl skating down the tracks of a steep roller coaster, wind in her hair and a look of the devil on her face. 

The ignition turns easily and she backs up. Then stops. She pulls the car forward, turning the key. _Off_.

The car door opens, her legs swing out. Feet flat on pavement and with great wavering between hesitation and urgency, she moves forward. She’s halfway to Therese’s door. 

Then. 

She stops. 

And turns back. 

Again. 

Back. 

Toward safety. 

Or death.

Hands land restlessly on the car’s hood where she collects herself, one falling wish at a time.

  
Therese holds Carol’s tee shirt, moving the fabric between her fingers, leaned against the door.

Driving home, images, ghost-like, flashing through Carol's mind. First Therese appears with her request to keep a shirt, then Randy falling off his skateboard and Harris holding his new baby son. Ali’s voice echoes the name Rand Canyon, then the Holla person winking, Jay laughing with Therese, and Libby telling her to “just let it happen.”

She pulls her car into a shopping center parking lot. Her cell phone raised to her ear, she makes a call.

“Hello.”

Suffocating silence. Breathing. In. Out.

“Do you--?” Pause for air. “Do you want me to go with you to your doctor’s appointment tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

  
  
**Love is to Die” by Warpaint**

_Love is to die, love is to not die_

_Love is to dance, love is to dance_

_Love is to die, love is to not die_

_Love is to dance, love is to dance_

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the wonderful comments on the resurrection of this story from newbies and old friends alike. Special thanks to Casper for the positive support she shares with the writers in this community. I only hope I'm a better writer than I was four years ago because of people like her in this community of diehard readers and storytellers. 
> 
> Blowing off the digital dust on this project makes me nostalgic for 2016, make that anytime before January 2016 = pre-dick-tator-ship. If only I could click my heels together Dorothy style. 
> 
> Peace!


	7. Snow Plow Stop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stitches come out. Carol makes plans. God laughs.

**_Snow Plow Stop_ ** _is a roller derby term for a stop where you bring your feet wide and then pigeon toe back in, digging in with heels to come to a full stop._

Carol takes her morning walk around Green Lake. Though she slept less last night, coming home from Therese’s well after midnight, the normally stressed, divorced mother and NICU nurse, feels an unusual tranquility. No meditation podcast buzzes in her ear; she’s not even trying to find Zen. Perhaps that’s the secret: not minding mindfulness. Or, could Zen require a new _friend_ 13 years your junior who you have nothing in common with? 

She passes a homeless man, one she sees regularly at the same bench. A likely meth addict, he picks sores on his elbow. Zen flees, making her wonder the same question each time she sees him or the substance abusing single mothers who deliver babies who end up in her NICU: how the hell did this happen to you? 

She’s put off calling Harris long enough, resenting the intel from Ali about a need to change Randy’s birthday plan. The call rolls to his voicemail. Slightly winded from the last lap, she leaves a message, her tone terse: “Ali tells me you need to talk about Randy’s birthday, something about a change of plan. Listen, Harris, Randy and I made our plan weeks ago. I’m taking him and Max to Portland for the Robotics Convention, but you very well know that. And, what the hell with using Ali to give me a message to call YOU? God, are we in primary school passing notes?”

Carol walks home leisurely, not due back to the hospital until Wednesday to start the next cycle of three twelve-hour-shifts in a row. Her plans for the day include paying bills, shopping for groceries and most importantly, meeting Therese for the 3:30pm appointment to get stitches removed. She’s hoping to invite her to dinner afterward, if things go well. It seems a good idea to thumb through a favorite cookbook, just in case. She looks around her home, relieved that it’s halfway orderly with no skateboards in the middle of the living room. 

The 1924 craftsman home she lives in, just a few blocks from the lake, was part of the divorce settlement. Considered modest when she and Harris moved in after marrying, the booming Seattle economy and real estate market, coupled with the home’s sought after-proximity to the lake, make it now far from modest. It was home for a few years, back before Harris joined an orthopedic practice in Bellevue, a wealthy city 20 miles east of Seattle. They kept the Green Lake home as rental property. After the divorce, Carol found herself moving back _home_ to the place where Randy grew up, the boy naming the house Calvin on account of Calvin Coolidge being president the year it was built. 

Carol enjoys balancing preserving the home’s classic style while updating Calvin. She’s worked with the same contractor modernizing major systems and redesigning and transforming the home, adding stylish touches like quartz countertops in the kitchen and baths and a charming English garden in the backyard. Unrecognizable from its humble beginnings, Calvin continues gradually changing, Carol making it more distinctively hers. In the “Love It or List It?” world, she always chooses to love it. This week her contractor plans to start work on a mud room off the back porch. Anyone who lives in Seattle appreciates the necessity of a mud room. 

After showering and paying bills, Carol pulls out a cookbook and leans against the bay window, seated in a cozy nook area of her living room. Her eyes close and she relaxes, warmed by the sunlight shining through the glass. She imagines Therese sitting next to her. Might they end up here at some point tonight, provided Therese joins her for dinner? Her breathing slows and she falls asleep. 

When she flinches awake half an hour later, she finds the cookbook on the floor open to “Lemon Herbed Salmon.” The decision feels fateful and appropriate as the name salmon originates from the Latin _salmo,_ meaning _to leap_. Carol Aird continues on a life path of baby steps that could lead to one great leap. 

* * *

“Zee, when is your doctor’s appointment again?” Jay sticks her head over their side-by-side cubicles at BigFace IT Security Solutions. The company motto, _We face digital threats so you don’t have to,_ weighs heavily on Jay. Lately, when it comes to her friends, she’s the one minding the threats. Today she looks after a distracted Therese; yesterday it was Holla who she thought needed protection.

“Huh?” Therese looks up, spinning mentally in a planetary system light years from her workstation. She’s supposed to focus on a fast-approaching deadline, finishing a report she and Jay were assigned as a team: Distributed Denial of Service (DDOS). The bizarre and legitimate cyber attack lingo of black hats, dumpster diving and zombie drones pops into Therese’s head briefly. She becomes the zombie drone, hacked by the thought of seeing Carol Aird in a few hours, no firewall virile enough to withstand that sort of attack. She’s counting the minutes until her 3:30pm doctor’s appointment, pickling in a frothy stew of longing and nerves. She daydreams about seeing Carol, dead to the idea of tweezers yanking thread from her leg. 

“Yo, Zee. Snap out of it. Do you even see me standing here?” 

“Oh. I’m sorry Jay, I was just thinking about something.” 

“More like someONE.”

“How long have you been watching me?”

“Long enough. HERE. WE. GO. Pull your shit together, Cray Zee.”

“I’m sorry. I’m just a little distracted. That’s all.”

“No, you’re A-ttracted, which makes you distracted and I’m about to extract myself from this little work team. I’ll use lingo the nurse from the lake might use so you’ll listen. We gotta finish this report STAT. Feel me?”

“You’re right. I don’t need to leave until 2:30, it gives us a few more hours, plenty of time to finish.”

“Yes, IF you are present in mind, not just body.” Jay walks into Therese’s cubicle. “I know you’re all Caroling it up over there and it isn’t even December.” She moves inches from Therese’s flushed, far in the distance face. “I don’t wanna sound like Little Saint Dick here, but seriously, dude, get your head in this game.”

Therese’s face lights up, ironically, like a Christmas tree at Jay’s remark. She laughs sweetly.

“Aw, Caroling. That’s super cute.”

“Christ, Therese, are we in middle school?” She only uses her friend’s non-skater name when she’s macro-pissed. 

“Okay, I’m sorry, you’re right. Let’s do this.” She psyches herself up and works with Jay beyond lunchtime until receiving a text from Carol with the suggested time and place of meeting for the appointment.

 _Ok. Sounds good, Carol. See you then. Thank you!_ She replies with an elevated heart rate and a change of wording twice before hitting the send key. Jay glances over at her, elevated annoyance at a gooey smile evolving on Therese’s face when she types the letters _C-a-r-o-l._

“Deck the fucking halls! You really are a love sick puppy. I may not survive this.” Jay groans, editing the finishing touches on the report.

Therese leaves work for her appointment with Jay following her outside to take a break. They chat briefly on the side of the BigFace building, a repurposed brick structure formerly part of a salmon-packing company. 

“You’re in a mood. Did something happen with Holla at the dog shelter yesterday?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“You’ll feel better if you do. I’ve got a few minutes before I need to leave.”

“Holla’s mad at me.” Jay breaks much quicker than Therese expected.

“Oh?” Therese musters up an understanding nod, familiar with the growing agitation and fissures developing with regularity between her best friends.

“She got attached to an old wiener dog at the shelter. He has an immune disorder and needs meds like twice a day. Why does a person who already has a three-legged dog and the blind one need another burden? Plus she works five days a week, not to mention the derby time-suck. Can you believe her?”

“Well, it does sound like Holla.” Therese shrugs, she’s used to the size of Holla’s heart exceeding her available time. Somehow she always manages to make things work. Largely, Therese supposes, because people, the ones drawn to her like moths to a porch light, help her make it work.

“Then get this, some volunteer at the shelter was all smitten with her, following us around, showing her every freaking dog and bunny in the place, asking about her job, hobbies … what side of the bed she prefers. You know the way people get with her? I grabbed her by the arm and pulled her out of there before she ended up signing the adoption papers for Mr. George Michael.”

“George Michael?” Therese looks confused. 

“You know, the name of the old wiener dog.”

“Cute name.”

“Christ, not you too?”

“Sorry, go on.”

“Holla went ape shit on me, says I embarrassed her in public and that I don’t understand her compassion. Compassion?” Jay’s face tenses up like a woman pushing through a contraction. Therese looks around to make sure no co-workers are nearby or looking out a window, able to spy on the meltdown, proving that Jay’s not the only one protecting her friends.

“She doesn’t acknowledge that I always have her back, Zee. I'm looking out for her all the damned time while she’s saving dogs, winking at some sappy stranger and showing kindness to every damned creature on this planet ... giving her heart away to everybody, everybody but ...”

“But what?” Therese side glances at her watch not wanting to be late to meet Carol.

“Forget it. Nothing. You have to go.”

“I do, but can we talk later? Maybe tonight, okay?”

“Yeah, maybe.” They won’t talk. Therese will try to bring it up, but by then Jay will have buried it, a dog protecting a favorite bone.

“I’m sorry,” Therese tries to remain neutral. She often feels like a juror on a civil case between her friends, disqualified due to impartiality. Holla’s side of the animal shelter story will eventually surface, though with Holla, an impossibly complex creature, she’ll hold her cards much closer than Jay. “Maybe you should let up on hanging out so much with her. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all.”

“Yeah, I _should_ hang out less, cuz with her I’m should-ing all over myself.” For a split second Jay looks like she could cry, quickly pulling herself together as she always does. Even though Therese is officially running late and without the slightest idea what Jay means with all of this “should-ing” business, she stands there with her friend just a little longer than she should.

* * *

Therese looks out the window at the Starbuck’s meet-up spot, waiting for Carol, surprised to arrive first. She kills time by watching people going in and out of the medical building across the street. Carol comes into view, sauntering through a crosswalk, talking on her cell phone. It’s the first time she’s actually watched how she walks, a rhythm to the locomotion, a strut that makes the dangling flap of her leather belt swing side-to-side. Tight blue jeans, a maroon leather jacket and brown suede boots complete the casual ensemble, her hair windblown, but in a good way. She waves, coming through the glass doors still talking on her cell. Therese overhears Carol’s half of the conversation.

“Great, you can start tomorrow? ---- Perfect. ---- No, that should be indicated in the designs. --- Do you need me to resend them?” She laughs. “Ok, Frank, I’ll leave the key under the hydrangea pot, as usual. Talk soon.”

“I’m so sorry to make you wait. I needed to confirm with my contractor the start time of work on my house. He’s building a mud room off the back porch tomorrow. But, sorry, enough about that, how are you? Are you having happy thoughts about getting these stitches out?”

“Oh, I wish. Thank you again for coming. You must be sick of me and this leg of mine by now.”

“Nonsense. I wanted to come. As I recall, I invited myself.”

Therese smiles shyly. “I’m glad you did.” She can’t decide where to look. Definitely not into Carol’s eyes. 

They arrive at the medical building and Therese locates the directory near a long bank of elevators, searching for her doctor’s name, a quick confirmation of the suite number. “I’ve never seen this doctor before,” she explains while searching the board. “The ER referred me to him for removing stitches and evaluating how everything’s healing. He’s an orthopedic leg specialist.” 

“What’s his name?” 

“Rabinowitz.”

“As in _Mark_ Rabinowitz?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?” 

“I know,” Carol speaks softly, “because ... I _know_ him.”

“How?” 

“He was on a medical board with my ex and then they became golfing buddies. I met him at a few social functions.” She smiles, attempting to downplay her experience _with_ and her opinion _of_ the man. 

“Something in your voice tells me you don’t like him. Should I cancel the appointment?” 

“No, it’s just a strange coincidence, that’s all. He’s well respected for his work” Carol says smiling a second time, thankful when they step into the quiet space of an elevator shared with strangers. It’s the perfect killer of her sharing more.

After checking in, Therese sits next to Carol in a crowded waiting room and they thumb through six-month-old issues of _People_ magazine before both become bored. “See any _Better Homes and Gardens_?” Carol looks at the fanned out reading material on the nearby tables. 

“Here, read this instead.” Therese grins and playfully hands her a fitness magazine with male and female bodybuilders on the cover next to some ridiculous workout contraption.

“Right,” Sarcastic Carol says, throwing the publication back on the table. An eavesdropping elderly gentleman seated nearby looks at her and too loud and freely chuckles. 

“Bodybuilding not your thing, huh?” He eyes Carol slyly, a bold implication of his interest in _her_ body. 

She glances at him for a millisecond, dripping with palpable disinterest, crossing one leg over the other so that her boot touches the side of Therese’s good leg. She gently presses into her, making Therese blush. The women share a dismayed look, an unsaid agreement at how some men, even as they age and grow bald and portly STILL think of ogling a vital, younger woman. Talk about not reading a room. 

“Therese Belivet,” a gangly nurse in blue scrubs calls out.

“That’s us,” Carol says loud. The guy looks up, curious of their relationship, she can feel his eyes on her again, admiring the fit of her jeans. She places her hand on the small of Therese’s back and turns to him and flashes an exaggerated and oh so slow Holla-style wink, multiplying the naughty factor by 100. 

“So, we’re taking stitches out today?” The nurse settles them in the room, takes vitals and types info robotically into the computer.

“Yep,” Therese feels more uncomfortable in the actual exam room seeing instruments laid out on a nearby silver tray that the doctor will use to remove her stitches. “Dr. Rabinowitz should be with you shortly.”

“Thank you,” Carol says, reaching for a _Sunset Magazin_ e from a wall-mounted shelf in the room. She searches for an interesting article to distract Therese. "’The 12 Best Beaches to Visit in the Pacific Northwest.’ Let’s see how many you know. I’ll give you the last one, #12 is Grayland Beach.”

“That’s where I’m celebrating my upcoming birthday. Wanted to do something in nature and maybe stay sober this year too. I’m going with a few friends. We reserved a yurt for a couple nights. Have you ever been?” 

“No. I’ve definitely never stayed in a yurt. No room service.”

Therese begins to fidget, as Carol continues with the list. Her face becoming pale, she bites the insides of her cheeks and stares at a white wall.

“Are you okay?” Carol puts the magazine back on the rack.

“Honestly, I just want to run the fucking hell out of here. My heart is doing that fire engine thing again, feels like it will beat straight out of my chest. And just on account of this stupid appointment. I’m sorry you have to see me like this again.” She looks away.

Carol moves closer and touches a hand to her cheek. “It’s okay. Lots of people feel this uneasy at the doctor’s office. It’s called White Coat Syndrome. And listen, I lived with a doctor for many years. Under the coat they’re all the same -- well figuratively anyway -- they’re just like the rest of us. Human.”

“When you’re feeling like you want to bolt out of this room, just look at me. I’ll go cross-eyed or something.” 

The door opens and an overly tan, balding man, who looks like he spends too much free time watching his reflection in gym mirrors, greets the two women. “Hi, I’m Dr. Rabinowitz.” Carol takes a step back from Therese before he’s fully through the door. He instantly recognizes her. “Carol Aird, is that you?” A giddy smile, his professional guard let down so far it’s underneath his feet.

“Guilty. Hello, Mark.” Her steely composure lowers the room temperature.

“Carol, what the heck are you doing here, in my office?”

“I’m with my friend, Therese.” She holds onto the name like it’s a piece of expensive chocolate. _Theresssse._ She’s smoother than polished glass, letting him slip right off of her.

“I heard about the divorce, Carol. I’m sorry.” Immediately she’s irked at this particular and very personal line of questioning _during_ Therese’s medical appointment.

“Don’t be sorry.” She bats her eyes at Therese, an apology, feeling responsible for the doctor’s delay, not getting the hell on with his job.

“I’d love to get together and catch up sometime, Carol. You look fantastic. Let me jot down my cell number for you.” _For you?_ His eyes roam, slithering from her boots up to the top of her head, landing somewhere just north of her stomach, at the lowest unbuttoned button of her blouse, a cat-like smirk devouring a shiny bronze face.

Therese watches in utter freaking disbelief. If this man weren't moments from yanking thread from her leg she would say something. Talk about terrible bedside manner. His manner to bed Carol.

“No. Mark.” Fully the fuck in control, Carol pauses. He stops writing and looks up at her. “Keep the number,” she says. _In your pants._

A breaking wall of silence crushes the exam room. Carol clears her throat, eyes widening, arms folded, her message spoken with body language in even the certainty of her breathing. 

“Well, hello Therese.” He butchers the pronunciation in his haste to sprint away from his unprofessionalism. “Let me take a quick look at your leg.” He examines the stitches, asking Therese about the accident. She easily decides to leave Carol’s role out of the recounting.

“Okay, let’s get these stitches out.” He cleans the wound first then wheels over to retrieve the instrument tray for sterile forceps and scissors. He picks up the knot of a suture with the forceps, then cuts with scissors. The first tug elicits an “ouch” from Therese. Carol, carefully watches his technique.

“Mark, how about easing up, she’s not one of your Seahawk linebacker patients.” She knows he used to work with the football team.

“Oh, I thought derby girls were tough.”

Therese: _What the fuck_?

Carol: _Fuck off._

Carol crosses her eyes to amuse and distract. Gently and impulsively she leans in to move one strand of hair from Therese’s eyes. It’s a spontaneous act, as natural as the need for air or expression. Dr. Rabinowitz of course sees it and decides on the cancellation of operation _Wanna_ _get with me, Carol?_

“Therese, I’m going to place some adhesive strips over the wound to help strengthen it before you go using it to bash into other skaters.” Carol rolls her eyes.

“Your leg healed well. You should be able to return to your normal exercise regimen in a few days.”

“What? I thought I couldn’t get back to my usual activities until around the 20th?”

“What are your usual activities?” He looks at Carol with just a hint of disrespect, his disappointed assumption that they engage in “activities” together.

“She’s _very_ active,” Carol baits the fish.

The doctor looks uncomfortable.

“I’d say you can skate gently in a few days, but I’d hold off on competing hard for at least another two weeks, especially if you still have tenderness. You should wrap the leg for a few weeks too.” He heads for the door, more than ready to end the appointment.

“Nice to see you.” He half nods toward Carol. “Be careful of benches, Therese.” 

The door shuts.

“Carol, what was that all about?”

“My apologies. Hopefully I didn’t offend you or make you feel uncomfortable, you know, for _flirting_ with you in front of him?”

“No. I liked it.”

“Oh? Well, he deserved it. Trust me. Let’s get the hell out of here, I’ll tell you all about it later.” 

When safely outside the orthopedic office they find a small seating area where the telling begins. “Your doctor used to hit on me incessantly at these work parties I attended with my ex. He’s married, or at least was at the time. All handsy, he’d ask me to lunch with his wife and my husband across the room. I was nicer, _too_ nice back then. I never told him off. God how I wanted to. Sure you know the type.”

“Carol, I’m so sorry, you shouldn’t have had to go with me under these uncomfortable circumstances. Why didn’t you tell me before we went inside?”

“Don’t worry about it. He’s history. Sometimes it’s good to face your past in order to give it the finger.”

“What did your husband say, when a colleague of his hit on you like that?”

“I never told him. Some things in a marriage are better left at the office party.” 

Not experiencing marriage, let alone a serious long-term relationship or being hit on quite in this fashion, Therese can’t relate. She feels an inequality, a Loch Ness Monster resurfacing in the new inky waters between them. 

Carol feels it too. “Do you like salmon?” A hopeful commonality offered up.

“Yes, I love it, why?”

“Would you like to join me for dinner at my house ... now?” An unexpected shyness overcomes her.

“Yes. I would.” 

“You can follow me home.” Carol stands, a take charge demeanor, an insistence they put this medical building far behind them.

“Sure.” _I’ll follow you anywhere. All night long._

They step into an elevator occupied by two middle-aged men and a woman holding a young child. Together they ride in the middle of the car, silent expectation grows louder, a nearly painful urgency building between them. One of the men gets off the elevator. They shift into the open corner. Their hands bump against each other as the car drops. Therese rests her index finger on the soft, stretchy skin in between Carol’s thumb and index finger. She leaves it there for a few seconds, against Carol’s palm. Uncertain, she pulls the finger away. Carol swallows. Hard.

Therese follows the brown wagon, a caravan of two. The lead driver often glances in her rearview mirror, checking that the red Jeep keeps pace with her. They manage to stay together, Therese never leaving enough of a gap to allow an intruding vehicle to break them up. 

It begins to rain when they’re almost to their destination, nearly the same time Carol receives a call. It’s Harris. She puts him on speaker, not wanting to miss him again to speak about Randy’s birthday. After telling Rabinowitz off, she’s empowered to tell Harris off today too.

“Carol, where are you?”

“What? Why? …I'm driving home.”

“Listen, Carol, Randy's pretty sick. He came down with a bad sore throat and cough last night. He's stayed home from school today and won’t be well enough to go tomorrow either. Ali stayed with him today, but she can’t do it tomorrow. I'm stuck at an airport in Chicago, on my way to a seminar in Boston. Ali's overwhelmed with taking care of the baby and now Randy too. Can you help?”

“Does he have a fever?” The Mother instinct kicks in because of her son’s propensity to run very high temperatures, something he inherited from her. “Yes, well, Ali's been giving him …Tylenol I think.”

“Tylenol you think? Harris, you know Motrin is the only thing that brings his fever down. I'm on my way to pick him up.” The call ends abruptly while he’s still talking. She’s flummoxed that a physician can’t remember what over-the-counter meds work best on his own son. Harris Aird sits at Gate B-4 continuing to talk, thinking she’s still on the line. He starts to tell her why he needs to change the birthday plans. 

“Dammit.” He eventually figures out she’s not there.

Carol parks in front of her house. She’ll wait to run inside to gather a thermometer, Motrin, cough medicine, throat lozenges, and a first aid cold pack until _after_ she breaks the bad news to Therese.

“I’m so sorry, Carol,” Therese says with great understanding, “I hope he feels better soon.” 

“I’ll text you later. We’ll reschedule.” 

“Let me know if I can help. Call me if you need me to run to the store for anything.” Therese reaches her hand out to Carol.

“Thank you,” Carol says, “you’re very kind.” She gently pulls the hand toward her and wraps both of her arms around the small of the young woman’s back, her blonde hair mixing with brown as their complicated feelings for each other get tangled up together. 

* * *

Therese stands by her Jeep watching Carol drive away. She waves, her reflection growing smaller in Carol’s mirror as the brown wagon turns left onto West Green Lake Way. 

Tears sting Carol’s eyes before she wipes them in frustration. She stifles a breathy sob that nearly escapes her lips. It makes her feel young and irresponsible, crying over a simple change of plans. Her priority shifts, a ship changing course, toward motherhood and the care of her son. 

Rain falls harder when she reaches the freeway, a parking lot of rush hour evening gridlock. “Fuck,” she mutters, inching forward, going nowhere fast east, lost in an impassable sea of headlights and tail lights. 

Submerged.

Looking out the front window of her condo, Therese watches the rain coming down harder in the growing darkness. She thinks only of Carol, out there in it. Echoes of how she felt with arms wrapped around her linger like a haunting melody. And the realization haunts her too, yet again, of all the things that separate them, including a son she’s never met. Raindrops stream down the window pane, rolling patterns streak the glass as they descend. She holds the boot of one of her new skates and spins a wheel until it comes to a complete stop. 

She spins it again.

**Ending Music**

“Transatlanticism” - Death Cab for Cutie

_The Atlantic was born today, and I'll tell you how_

_The clouds above opened up and let it out_

_I was standing on the surface of a perforated sphere_

_when the water filled every hole_

_And thousands upon thousands made an ocean_

_making islands where no islands should go_

_Oh no_

_And the distance is quite simply much too far for me to row_

_it seems farther than ever before_

_Oh no_

_I need you so much closer_

_I need you so much closer_

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the 3rd installment. Editing and reposting this story has kept my mind happily off the news. Thank you for the comments. I don’t always reply, but I appreciate every one of them. 
> 
> Peace and good health.


	8. Bout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carol takes care of her sick son. The Roller Coaster Girls kick off the season with several practice games.

**_Bout_ ** _is the period of play within each game of roller derby played between two teams (aka packs) of skaters. Each bout is composed of 60 minutes, divided into two 30-minute sessions._

When Carol picks up Randy, the thermometer reads a temperature of _102.5_. She exchanges feverish words with Ali. “You should have called me sooner. Didn’t Harris tell you about Randy running high fevers? Don’t you two talk to each other, for Christ sake?”

Ali offers up her best “I’m Offended” face, though Carol can’t shake the feeling that she looks too put together for someone stressed about managing a newborn and a sick stepson. “Guess I’d better rush off to read your _Secrets to a Great Marriage_ book, hadn’t I, Carol?” Ali snipes with a retaliatory low blow after Randy’s out of earshot and inside his mother’s car. She waves to him and mutters “Feel better, Rand,” before turning sharply and disappearing inside her large home in an exclusive, upscale neighborhood, the place where Carol _used_ to live.

Randy settles in the car, his mother gives him Motrin and places the cold pack on his forehead.

“Keep holding it there,” she says driving away.

“Sorry you had to come all the way out here, Mom.” His face looks flushed, his eyes glassy and his voice horse.

“Nonsense. That’s what Moms do. I brought your favorite cherry lozenges.” She looks at him with concern because of his inherited tendency to run hot, both of their bodies the same -- innately overreacting to the slightest invading organism.

By 7:30pm they’re back in Seattle with Randy’s fever persisting, heading in the wrong direction, a habit of spiking at night. She hates what she’s about to do, it’s always the last result and unfortunately necessary. 

He shivers with his head leaned against her arm. She stands beside him in the cold shower, remembering a similar scene when her mother or father stood with her, pushing her into the water, waiting for cold to douse the flames of her hypervigilant immune system.

* * *

It’s Tuesday evening derby practice. Holla and Jay lace up their skates seated on opposite ends of a long metal bench at Hangar 11. Neither speaks. Neither has spoken to the other in days. The silent treatment tournament remains a dead heat. 

Another local team, The Belligerents, will compete against the Roller Coasters in a non-scored practice bout. Therese plans to watch. For now, she’s still parked outside, reading the latest text messages from Carol, the latest an update on Randy.

> _C: He’s better. Cold shower did the trick. Hated it, but only thing that works & Motrin. Poor kid got my crappy fever genes. Where R u? how R u? _
> 
> _T: That’s great news. Glad to hear he’s better. I’m @ Hangar 11. Team practice_ _game tonight. Just here to watch. Wish you were here._

She second guesses the last comment before, during and after sending it. 

> _C: Me too. Sorry about dinner getting cancelled. Keeping Randy tomorrow too and I work Thurs & Fri. He’s back with me Sat morning - Mon night. (Mon no school - teacher training day.) Would next Tues work? _
> 
> _T: Ugh, I have a work trip to Portland next week. Leave Sun evening, not back till late_ _Wed. Then off on b-day trip Thurs after work._

The longer the texting progresses the more discouraging their conflicting schedules as though some cruel gods of destiny insist on keeping them apart.

Carol receives an incoming call from Harris during her texting with Therese.

“Carol, how is Randy?”

“His fever is better but I’m keeping him home from school one more day so he can rest up. Harris, you should have called me sooner.”

“Can we not do this right now, please?” He sits in his hotel room going over notes for a talk he’s giving the next day on rotator cuff surgery. There’s an irony in how the most competent people can also be the most neglectful. The tension between them mirrors the end of their marriage. Despite occupying the same house, room or bed, they resided in different emotional zip codes.

“I need to talk to you about Randy’s birthday. I have a conference in San Diego next week. It's a last minute situation that materialized.” 

She’s always disliked the formality of some of his word choices, for example “materialized.” She wishes he’d just say it in plain English: _My last minute bullshit fucks you over._

“Ali and the baby are joining me,” he goes on as she lets him dig himself deeper into deserved discomfort. “We think it’s an opportunity for an impromptu family getaway.” _Impromptu?_ “All the recent changes have not been easy and you know how much attention a newborn requires. We want to celebrate Randy’s birthday together, make it special.”

She’s unclear if he means that the changes of having a new baby have been difficult for him or Randy. In any case, the news delivered in Harris’ customary stiff fashion, hits her hard, causing the kind of wounding worthy of a silent-treatment impasse.

Harris goes on to let it slip that Randy’s plane ticket was already purchased. “We’re planning to leave next Wednesday morning and be back late Sunday. I’ve checked with his teachers and we picked up the assignments he’ll miss next week.”

“You actually bought his airline ticket _and_ checked with his teachers without bothering to include me in the loop?” 

He sits in culpable silence, yet manages to concurrently and stoically review notes for his orthopedic presentation. 

“You get so much damned time with him during the school year,” she speaks with less control, “do you think this arrangement is easy for me, seeing him only on weekends till June? And now the birthday plans I made with him come secondary to your family’s whim?” She notices Randy standing in the hallway, overhearing. “Harris, I’ve got to go. Randy and I will celebrate another time. But this conversation isn’t over.” 

“What’s wrong, Mom?” Though his fever leveled off, he still feels poorly. 

“Nothing, sweetheart, you’re not to worry.” She walks him back to his bedroom.

“Mom?”

“Hmm?”

“Would you have me again if you had the choice?”

“Wherever is this coming from?”

“I know kids are a pain. We’re total leeches of money, time, energy and your will to live.” He’s smiling at her now, one of the few people who know when and how to lift her spirits.

" _My will to live_? This fever made you positively loopy.” Her head leans back and a freefall of laughter changes her mood. For now.

* * *

Therese immediately picks up on the tension between Jay and Holla. They conspicuously avoid each other like atheists in a room full of evangelicals. “You two should find a boxing ring, forget derby.” Therese speaks bluntly to Jay, taking a seat on the bench near her. 

Tightening one of her braids, Jay’s preferred hair style during competitions; she's back to her own natural, light brown hair color. No traces of the most recent blonde dye job survive. Her hair color changes as fast as her moods. She’s perpetually trying to cover up the braided little girl inside of her with hair dye and sarcasm. 

“Hey, Cray.” Holla yells, flashing Therese a wave and subdued smile before skating off somewhere, anywhere _else_. 

“Pfft” Jay makes the dismissive sound. “Can you believe her? What a bitch, not even coming over here to say hi to you because you’re sitting with me.”

“Wow,” Therese in disbelief, “don’t you think that’s pretty harsh? It’s no big deal that she didn’t come over. You two _really_ need to sort this out and leave ME out of it.”

Jay scarcely hears, the bulk of her attention taken up pretending to ignore how Holla ends up in a conversation with teammate fucking Skate Blanch-ed, an insanely ice cold badass, an aggressive skater known for being the most talented blocker in the entire league. She's as much about derby theatrics as the sport, often blacking out her front teeth during bouts, using makeup to draw jagged scars drawn on one or both of her cheeks. An animal of few words, Skate speaks predominantly with her body, her most verbal communication on the track comes in the form of growls at opponents or the occasional colorful command to “Back the fuck off.” Skate’s got everyone’s back as blocker. Rumor has it, she also, behind bedroom doors, she has many women in and out of the league on _their_ backs.

“Planning to kill anyone tonight, Skate?” Holla refers to her teammate’s reputation for injuring opposing players: sprains, concussions, whiplash, ripped nails, broken noses and ribs just a few offenses delineated on her considerable derby resume. Ironically, most of her victims eventually end up in her previously mentioned bed, screaming out in a much different manner than after she injures them on the track. Gay, straight, bi and all degrees of curiosity and fluidity, it doesn’t matter the designation, they’re all potentially Skate-sexual. Atheists, Christians, Buddhists, Wiccans … it makes no difference their faith when they come to her, they all end up converts _coming_ for her. Extremist, moderate, conservative, liberal, it’s of no political consequence. They all moan her name, pro-Skate. She gets all the votes.

“Me, kill someone?” Skate addresses Holla’s question with unpersuasive innocence. “Well, maybe just you.” A wicked smile follows, video game femme fatale swagger and cat-like eyes roam Holla briefly up and down. 

“Game Over,” Holla with hands on her hips, in charge of this interaction and all interactions with cagey Skate. 

“Know somethin’ Holla?” Skate looks directly into her eyes.

“What?”

“It’s all whack.” Skate bites her lower lip and tilts her head while raising one eyebrow. Most of what she says, like this, comes off as a giant riddle. Skating skillfully backwards, she spins around deftly with a powerful scissor maneuver and disappears into a pack of skaters.

“Look at her, Zee, Holla over there chatting it up with fucking Skate. She knows how much I can’t stand that egomaniacal piece of work.” Jay folds her arms. “I considered extending the olive branch to her, now I’d rather break it in two.”

“I’m off to find a better seat, away from you. Seriously, you need to chill.” Therese speaks her peace and executes an exit strategy away from the drama.

The skaters warm up. Therese pays more attention to the latest unexpected Carol text, her eyes and fingers speeding across the keypad.

> _C: How about Randy and I take you up on your offer to work with him on_ _skateboarding? Sat or Sun?_
> 
> _T: Great! Either works, but if Sun, earlier the better. I leave for Portland in the evening._

Therese has no idea that Carol texts while tearful after learning of the hijacked birthday plans with Randy. Carol wants to call but talks herself out of it. Therese not being a parent might be unable to relate and find it a silly overreaction. Furthermore, she’ll come off as hinting that they hang out on the 21st, now that she’s free. It’s the last thing she wants to do, play the third pity party wheel at Therese’s birthday trip with her friends.

Carol stops feeling sorry for herself and curls up in bed with an issue of _This Old House_ , skimming before and after photos of renovations. It doesn’t distract from her pining for an excuse to see Therese sooner than Sunday. Her 12-hour shifts don’t make that easy. Nevertheless she reaches for her phone, considering the direct approach, tearing down all her before walls: _I don’t think I can wait to see you until the weekend._ An incoming text lights up her screen first. 

> _T: Want to watch my team play a practice game with me on Thursday @ 8pm?_
> 
> _C: Yes. Meet you there. Coming after work so might be a bit late._

Carol can’t imagine enjoying roller derby one bit. She analyzes the undeniable significance that she very much still wants to go. 

* * *

After practice Holla asks Therese for a ride home. “I took the bus to practice from work. I’d ask Jay for a ride since she lives closer, but...”

“Sure, it’s no problem. It’s a good excuse for us to catch up.” 

Holla doesn’t say much for the first few miles, Therese surprised she’s still not barked out her side of the dog shelter drama.

“You okay? Wanna talk about what’s going on with Jay?”

“Clearly you’ve already heard everything there is to know and taken her side.” Holla looks at the car riding alongside them. A little boy in the backseat stares at her. He waves. She smiles and waves back. “Hi, cutie” she mouths the words without exaggerated gestures of insincerity adults often succumb to when interacting with children. The boy strains to keep eye contact with her as the Jeep carries her away.

“I try not to take sides, but I work with Jay so I see her more. You know I don’t want to get in the middle. I love you both. I did suggest you two take a break from hanging out for a while.”

“We’re not spent any time together aside from ignoring each other at practice. It just seems like …” She sounds more tired than angry.

"Like what?”

“It’s like she wants something from me. Hell if I know what it is. Clearly, I should limit my interactions to dogs. I do much better with them. And, listen, Cray, I hate to do this to you,” she looks up with a seriousness only Holla can convey, turning off any remains of her natural surface charm to dive much deeper, “I think it’s best if I beg out of the birthday trip next week. I’m sorry. You understand, right?”

Therese nods without saying a word, wishing she could fix things for her friends. Some things are too invisibly fragile and complicated to understand, let alone mend.

“Thanks for the ride. Night.” They wave to each other, Holla sneaking inside her house past old dogs Trixie Belden and Melvin, furry paparazzi eager to greet her with unconditional love. 

After feeding the dogs, Holla picks up her phone. She starts to call Jay. She hits the End Call button before connecting. She begins composing a text instead: “Jay, can we please just --” Delete. She leashes up the dogs and heads out the back door, walking the senior canines, gladly adjusting to their very slow pace down city sidewalks and into the night.

* * *

Carol drives Randy back to his father’s. He’s well enough for school the next day and looking forward to the California trip, though he downplays it. “I’d rather stay here and do our original trip with Max on my birthday, Mom.”

She reminds him of all the fun he’ll have in California. “Dad says he’s taking you to the planetarium. You’ll love the sunny beaches there too. It’s supposed to rain tomorrow through June here!” She laughs, covering a broken heart, winning an Emmy for _Best Performance by a Mother in a Leading Role._

“How’s the roller skating lady, Stitches?”

“Stitches got her stitches out Monday and she’s invited you this weekend to the airplane hangar where her roller derby team practices and competes. It’s at Magnuson Park. She said she’d work with you on skateboarding …if you want.”

“Cool. I hope you told her I suck.”

* * *

Thursday morning Carol feels more tired than usual, performing her NICU charge nurse role with the early signs of a whopper headache building behind her eyes. She takes an aspirin and continues working with a newborn admitted last week, addicted to the same opioids as its mother. The infant’s strung out, overly sensitive to sights and sounds, irritable, trembling, her reflexes on overdrive. Three shifts ago, Carol bonded with the tiny girl, an unexplainable human connection, like most connections, made in seconds. She spends time with beautiful infants all the time, but there’s something special about _this_ one. The instant their eyes met, the newborn, an addict without her mother to give her another hit, seemed to express a simple message to Carol: _Help me. What is wrong with me?_

The baby continues on a morphine drip to wean her off Mommy’s toxic cocktail, Carol chatting in her calmest voice, checking the IV that was inserted into her scalp, the place where veins are the most developed in neonates. “You’re a tough cookie. Mind if I call you that? Maybe you will grow up to become an athlete or how about a roller derby girl? Your fans would say ‘There’s that Tough Cookie, she never crumbles.’” Carol laughs softly. It makes her head hurt worse.

A young neonatal nurse, who finds Carol intimidating, walks by hearing part of the tender exchange between the no nonsense charge nurse and addicted baby girl. The nurse lingers outside the door listening, her opinion of the charge softening. 

Carol meets Libby for lunch in the cafeteria, finding her hunched over a laptop, the hobby writer working on a new piece of fiction. 

“You look paler than your usual pale, Carol. You okay?”

“Sure, just trying to get rid of a piece of a headache, that’s all.” She takes another aspirin.

“Could it be too many late nights skating around your feelings?”

Carol doesn’t want to talk about her feelings. She’s not _feeling_ up to it. “Nope. We’re definitely not talking about me today. How’s the writing?”

“Well, if you must know, I’m developing a zombie novel that takes place at a Seattle hospital.”

The working title of _Zombie M.D._ amuses Carol.

“Libby, I can promise you, I will never read it. Where does this side of you come from?”

“Well, the word zombie actually comes from Western Africa, as do I. But we’re not talking about

zombies today. Nice try. You _are_ the queen of avoidance?”

“You’re the queen of annoyance.” Carol rotates her head, noticing how stiff her neck feels too.”

“So?” Libby begins to pull information from Carol as all good writers do, listening, being interested and asking the right questions. Ultimately Carol spills her guts. Before lunch concludes she divulges how she thinks about the skater far too much. “It’s like she has a chunk of me that I’m missing. And I need it to live.” Carol looks away, embarrassed. “Christ, Libby, why the hell do I tell you these things? It’s like you have voodoo powers.”

Libby grins and leans in good-natured. “Do you know what I think you need?”

“By the smirk on your face, I’m not sure I want to hear. You probably think I’ve turned 100% gay at age 43 on account of a woman who skates roller derby.” She tries to rub out the knots in the back of her neck.

Libby explains how she doesn’t understand why people need to label everything all the time. “Why can’t someone or something be one thing  and  another? And why does there need to be an explanation for everything anyway, especially when it involves the way one feels?” She looks around at nearby tables, lowering her voice while moving in closer to Carol’s ear. “You need to go gay your brains out all over this woman. And, yes, my friend, you're about as gay for her as the zombies I write about are raised from the dead. 

During the final hours of Carol’s shift, things take a turn. At 3:04pm baby girl Tough Cookie develops a dangerously slow heart rate, below 70 beats per minute. She stops breathing altogether at 3:11pm. Carol begins ventilation while yelling for a nearby nurse to page the rounding physician. She provides oxygen at a rate of 1 to 2 liters per minute, holding a mask to the side of the infant’s face. No improvement. Carol starts CPR, encircling her hands around the baby’s chest, using her thumbs for compression. 

Despite the best efforts of her and the physician who arrives quickly, the baby is pronounced dead at 3:29pm. 

She’s trained to carry on objectively in the face of negative outcomes and stressful emergencies. This one hits her hard. Very hard. She’s more angry than usual that nature deals out such pathetic hands of cards, the odds stacked against the infant from the moment of birth, or even conception. 

The remainder of her day focuses on meetings with the NICU team, hospital leadership, legal counsel, as well as communicating with the infant’s family and updating the night nursing staff at shift change. Due to the circumstances, her shift doesn’t wrap up until 9pm.

By the end of an exhausting day, Carol can’t shake the grief and sadness. On her way off the unit, she walks to a private restroom. Her steps feel slow and heavy and do sounds of the NICU equipment distorted and fading into nothing. She can’t hear the inconsolable infant cries, beeping equipment, ringing phones or drifting voices of staff. She locks the restroom door and lets the psychological shit she’s held together all day, hit the fan. She breaks down, leaning against a wall, sobbing. Her head throbs, her neck and back ache and she notices she’s developing chills. Sweat forms on her forehead. She’s definitely getting sick. Pulling herself together she heads toward the locker room.

“Night, Carol. Sorry about today,” a passing night shift nurse waves. Carol nods, barely seeing her.

Her purse feels heavy as she takes it out of her locker. She pulls her cell phone out of her scrubs pocket to text Therese that she’s sorry she missed meeting her. Zero percent charge. Another terminal case, the phone shoved into her purse. She doesn’t bother to change out of scrubs even though it’s hospital protocol. 

The drive home takes on a slow-motion quality, time disfigured, minutes are days with images of Tough Cookie consuming every mile. Just inside the front door of her home she dumps her purse and keys on the living room floor and drags herself down the hall agonizing inch-by-inch toward her bedroom. She crawls into bed, pulling the thick white comforter all around her trembling body, burying herself face-first into the pillows. Sweat drips down her back, her chest and from every pore on her face. Chills and fever fight it out. 

She used the last of the Motrin in the house on Randy. The nurse and Mother who cares for everyone else should know better. The sick caregiver fails to take care of herself. The miserable day and her rising thermostat obliterates all of her good sense and she slips further into a fever-induced delirium. 

* * *

During Thursday night’s game Holla talks to Therese who keeps watching the door and her phone. “Thought your nurse friend was coming?” 

“I thought so too.” 

Holla suggests maybe she’s stuck late at work.

“Yeah, maybe.” Therese should be concerned. Instead she feels wounded by Carol not letting her know she’s late or cancelling. Mostly she’s flat out angry with herself for being this weak and too affected by what anyone else does or doesn’t do. _I seriously need to grow a pair._

“Maybe you should text her to make sure everything’s okay?”

Therese decides to concede and take Holla’s advice halfway through the second bout.

> _Hi. Don’t see you at the game, you must have gotten busy or changed your mind. No problem, just checking in._

Therese congratulates her teammates after they win the practice bout. The group plans to celebrate at a local microbrew. 

“Coming?” Jay asks, distracted watching Holla leave the hangar with a guy friend she works with who came to watch the game.

“No. Gonna pass. Have fun.” They walk away in separate directions.

Therese sits in her Jeep until 10:15pm. Still, there’s silence from Carol. Hurt graduates to worry. She drives quickly, headed in the direction of Green Lake and Carol’s house.

She parks out front, lingering and wondering if she’s doing the right thing by being here. Will it be awkward, her showing up? Did something come up with Randy or could Carol have _other_ company? She looks around for the wagon. It’s not parked in the driveway or in the street. It could be in the small adjoining garage. She decides to knock on the front door. 

No answer. 

She rings the bell.

Nothing. 

She turns the door knob.

It’s locked. 

She peeks through the front window. Only a night light shines in the hallway. It's enough illumination that she can make out Carol’s purse lying on the floor and her keys. She picks up her cell and calls Carol. It goes to voicemail. “Hi, it’s Therese. I’m concerned I’ve not heard back from you. Are you okay? I’m out front, at your house. I have a feeling something’s wrong. Please call me.”

She stands in the cold and begins to panic. She paces back and forth on the front lawn, calculating her next move. A full moon shines brightly, adding an eerie chilliness to the deathly quiet neighborhood. The only sound comes from an occasionally barking dog. 

Her mind and heart race, both moving into the fast lane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed another spin around the track and a much needed escape from reality. Wishing you a break from whatever your worries may be.


	9. Initiator of the Assist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Therese assists Carol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kind comments. They mean so much to me. It touches me that a circle of you still find enjoyment in the original characters too and might read more beyond this particular chapter. ;>)
> 
> Take good care, friends. Peace always.

**_Initiator of the Assist_ ** _refers to the derby skater who reaches for, grabs, and/or pushes a teammate in order to help her. A skater may also take an assist off of a teammate's body, thereby initiating their own assist._

Therese assesses the house carefully from a breaking and entering point of view. She leans all of her body weight against the front door, hoping for a miracle, not realizing the only miracle tonight is _her_ . Raising her foot, she kicks at the base of the door, finding she’s no match for it or the secure framing, jamb system or deadbolts, all likely endorsed by Martha Fracking _Consumer Reports_. The blue wooden door might as well be a seven foot tall bouncer with arms folded. It stares her down, not letting an inch of her small frame through. 

She walks along either side of the home finding the windows securely locked and too high to easily access. From the backyard, her sense of alarm grows at how dark and inactive the house appears. She tries her luck with the back door. It produces the same result after repeated kicks.

Out of breath, she notices stacks of wood and various tools off to one side of the back yard. She recalls the mud room project, sirens and mental light bulbs flash hearing Carol’s voice inside her head, the one she overheard on a phone call with her contractor. “I’ll leave the key under the hydrangea pot as usual.” 

Heart booming, she counts five hydrangea pots neatly located throughout the quaint backyard English garden. Running toward the first one, she trips on uneven cobblestones, falling onto her hands and knees. “Shit.” Brushing herself off, she gets back up and motors forward. There’s no key under the white hydrangea. The light pink and lavender produce no key either and she considers the possibility that the key’s in the contractor’s pocket.

Moving to another pot, a hydrangea covered in delicate blue flowers, she uncovers one gold lockmaster key and takes off running, leaving the planter shaking upright.

The act of placing one key inside one lock never proved this difficult, perhaps on account of her hands trembling, overcome with that feeling of a bad dream where nothing works, her fingers enormous and the key hole the size of a pinhead. The key fails to unlock the back door. She flies to door number one. 

The key fits.

“Carol?” She says it quietly, pushing the door closed behind her. 

Silence.

“Carol?” Once more.

She follows meager light coming from the hallway, steps taken in jittery inches, stepping over Carol’s purse and keys, an intruding house guest, missing details and nuances of the décor around her: an impeccably decorated living room, spotless updated kitchen, framed pictures of Randy and art work. She passes a painting of vibrant blue wildflowers. All she sees are shadows and the uncertainty of what and who she’ll find inside the house. 

In the first bedroom, down the hall, she finds a twin bed and a poster of the space shuttle on the wall. No signs of life. _Houston, we have a problem._

The next room, a spacious bathroom with every towel in its place, appears undisturbed too. The last room on the right, what must be Carol’s bedroom, remains her last hope. 

She takes one small step onto smooth mahogany flooring, holding up her phone, shining it toward the bed, making out familiar blonde hair draped in a tousled mess, it sticks out from edges of a white comforter, the lumpy shape of a body underneath. 

“Carol?” she whispers and rushes to the bedside. She turns on the nightstand lamp and gently reaches for the comforter that shrouds what appears to be a lifeless body. She shakes it, feeling how the body shakes too, beneath the bedding, hearing shallow breathing and a slight groan.

Therese pulls the covers down, her speed increasing in the waking urgency of these unfolding circumstances. What she uncovers turns the tables on their evolving relationship, spinning the dynamic, begging this young woman to take on a new role. _Welcome dear Care Receiver, you are cordially invited to … Give_. 

Lying before Therese Belivet, Carol Aird’s body trembles, the hue of her face nearly indistinguishable from the white comforter, eyes attempting to open, sensitive to the light and not cognizant of the blurry figure standing over her. She’s delirious, her cheeks flushed. Sweat soaks through the fabric under the arms of her scrub top; beads of moisture hang onto her forehead and drench her hairline. Fluttering eyes squint, glazed and glassy, these eyes belong to someone Therese does not recognize. “Oh, Carol,” she says. They face each other for the first time again, strangers. 

Without the swaddle of her comforter, sick Carol shivers harder, muttering unintelligibly. She turns to the side, curling up, infantile, her head burrows back into the pillows. Therese bends down and places a hand on a flushed cheek and soaked neck. “You’re burning up.” The body flinches at the cold hand, shivering harder. 

“What do I do?” The question directed metaphorically toward no one and herself too. Yet, most of all, she asks the question of the delirious nurse lying in bed, the one with a dull pounding in her head, drifting deeper into burning confusion _._

Mentally, Therese skates in circles, looping around the room, stupefied, as though an answer for her dilemma lies within these faint powder blue walls. A framed photo of Randy stares back at her from the night stand and she hits the brakes, receiving the divine gift of remembering how Carol shared the prescription for lowering out of control, hereditary temps. It’s another blessed Aha Moment! _Cold showers and Motrin are the only things that work._

She runs to the medicine cabinets in both the hall and master bath, finding a plethora of aspirin, Tylenol, Alka-Seltzer, Tums, band aids, hydrocortisone cream, hydrogen peroxide … Mother of God, 10,000 spoons when all she needs is one fucking bottle of MOTRIN!

Searching room-by-room, the hunt continues with her entering the second bedroom. Turning on the light, she easily locates a Motrin bottle on Randy’s nightstand. Lifting it, she knows immediately it contains one solitary 200 mg tablet that rattles too freely in the bottle. The confirmed awareness of her being screwed becomes apparent after she pops the cap and counts one pill. “SHIT!” She’s the real _pill_ now.

A spastic rush leads her to the kitchen where adrenaline sets in motion a mad search for a drinking glass to at least get this single, sorry pill into Carol. Opening and closing the wrong custom cabinets in a pristine, magazine-worthy kitchen, she swears louder than she does after an opposing derby team scores, pawing at handles and gray cabinet doors. She fills a glass with water and runs back down the hall to find the sick ragdoll still face down in the pillows. “Wake up. Come on, you need to take this. Please.” She tugs at an arm, Carol’s shivering intensified. Her name spoken again, it becomes clear how difficult it will be to arouse her, let alone move her into an upright position. 

Therese manages to move Carol by grabbing at her shoulders and pulling. Once she’s gotten her up off the pillows, she wedges behind her, the headboard slamming into her back and her arms wrapped around the ragdoll’s middle. “Here.” She slides the pill into her mouth and moves the glass up. “Drink,” she says and watches water dribble down Carol’s chin. She’s so out of it, she barely swallows, the pill going down begrudgingly. 

“Come on,” Therese says, realizing the next course of action will be the most difficult. Firmly she steps into her new role and begins to undress Carol.

“She di-ed.” The words come out of the deep blue nowhere.

“What?” 

“Tough. Cookkk-ieee.” 

“Can you lift your arms?” Therese’s worry grows about this erratic behavior. Carol lifts not an arm, leg or finger.

“I guess we’ll do this the hard way.” Carol’s scrub top lifted up and over her head. It feels like a garment out of a hot dryer. Next, the black cotton shirt underneath gets yanked in stops and starts, Carol dead weight in protest as fabric passes over her hair. Therese keeps her steadied, upright on the bed, trying not to stare at that familiar black bra that made her go stupid the first time she saw it, lying flat on her back at the lake.

_FOCUS. Cold shower, cold shower._

Carol becomes agitated feeling the cool air against her bare skin. She shivers with folded arms.

“I’m going to help you. Okay?” Therese squeezes an arm. She’s inches from Carol’s ashen, sweaty face. “I have to take your pants off now.” 

Carol’s head droops.

_Does she even hear what I’m saying?_

Therese stands beside the bed and unties the yellow drawstring on the waistband of the scrubs with athletic determination, remembering how Carol ripped the bandana from her head weeks earlier. She yanks at the bottoms, reaching up, hands sliding down firm legs, feeling their burning with fever. 

“Fu-ckk Me, Cray Zee.” Carol says in her delirium, falling back into bed as the scrub bottoms slip off of her and her overheated brain lets slip the desires of her heart. “Please.” 

Therese stares at a blue wall, numb and fully effed in the head. She gets a hold of herself and continues with the operation, removing a pair of footie socks, trying not to look at the very sick, sick woman on the bed in nothing but a black bra and matching underwear. 

“Come on, let’s go for a walk,” Therese says. She proceeds to hoist Carol out of bed and on her feet, God knows how. They take small, clumsy steps with arms wrapped tight around Carol’s back, a hand holding onto her wrist, guiding unsteady movement.

They reach the large glass shower, the kind four people could easily fit inside and Therese steadies Carol, opening the glass door. She maneuvers them inside. It’s the largest shower she’s ever seen with bottles of shampoo and conditioner neatly stowed in racks affixed to the wall. The shower head angled for a direct assault, Therese turns the brushed nickel faucet handle. Here comes the ice cold. Let it rain.

Carol gasps at the shock of it, a slap to her senses. She moves toward the back wall, away from the cold, covering her face from the spray. A hand grabs her wrist and pulls her back toward the water. She tries to pull away, bashing unwittingly against Therese’s still tender leg with her knee, making the younger woman grimace. For each defensive play, a stronger offense pulls, pushes, grabs and sends her straight back into the path of water. A final jab of an elbow proves ineffective, causing Therese to wrap her arms around Carol from behind, holding her there, stepping her forward when she tries to step back.

The hard rain pours down onto Carol. Strong arms wrap around her waist and steadfast feet ground her. “Sto-o-p-p,” she says, a last plea, teeth chattering. Soon, she submits. Drained, her hair soaked, water streaming down every limb, getting into her eyes. She makes a child-like moan that nearly crumbles Therese’s pounding heart. 

Therese gradually loosens her grip and turns so she’s facing Carol, light blond hair darkened with the drenching hangs in her face. Hands rest on Carol’s lower back and gently caress her, fingers sinking into wet flesh, a face presses softly against her neck, an ear pressed to her mouth hearing every miserable little gasp and groan. Each pleading, aching whimper. 

One last time before total surrender, Carol tries to step out of the water wall. Therese pushes her back again. For the last time.

The cooled body starts to awaken, realizing in degrees of awareness that the woman she’s fallen for over the past few weeks holds onto her nearly naked body in a shower. Delirium from illness takes a gentle, gliding turn toward a very different, primal delirium. She stares with sick eyes coming alive from the ice storm.

Therese stares back. Frozen. 

**“Fever” by The Black Keys**

_Fever where’d you run to_

_Fever where’d you run to_

_Acting right is so routine_

_Fever let me live a dream_

The image of the other woman comes more clearly into view: dripping wet, fully clothed, running shoes on her feet. Hands reach out, moving to either side of Therese’s waist, rocking her gently, wanting her fiercely. Water drips from Carol’s lips and falls in bursting, eager droplets across the side of Therese’s face. 

Fingers explore more of Carol’s cooled, wet skin, finding the places longed to be kissed. Her cheek. Dripping wet lips. Fingers press deeper, moving strands of soaking, twisted hair out of the way, never losing contact with glassy eyes that change. An animal’s.

The water, it keeps coming, coming, pouring down on them.

Guilty fingers stray farther, completely out of bounds, coming to rest on the edges of the black bra, desperate to feel the firm flesh underneath. Eyes looking through the waterfall beg for permission. 

“I don’t want to give you … I don’t want you to get … sick.” Carol’s hoarse voice trembles, wanting her anyway.

“I don’t care. Get me sick.” 

Eyes ignite. 

Carol lowers her head and centuries pass unnoticed. 

Lips and strands of wet hair meet, soft as a raindrop falling on an eyelash. 

Spinning in slow, wet circles.

One pushes against the other, against a wet wall.

Frustrated they can’t get closer, too much skin and bones in each other’s way.

_Fever got me guilty_

_Just go ahead and kill me_

Eyes open. A step taken back. They stare at each other. It changes. 

Carol closes her eyes again. Sick. She’s so sick. Leaned against the tiled wall it becomes impossible to distinguish her tears from the water drops. 

Therese understands. 

She turns off the water. 

“It’s okay. I’ll take care of you.”

Soft as innuendo Carol begins to sob, gently a hummed song blazing into opera. She releases sorrow, the losses of her day, the ones she’s trained to accept that, today, she can’t. Feeling lousy, sick, insignificant compared to the death of a newborn child. A weak body slides down the blue-green porcelain tiles, landing on the wet shower floor. The harder she weeps warm pooling tears, the tighter Therese holds onto her with Ruthless tenderness (ripRBG), stroking her face, kissing it here and there. Cheeks. An ear. Forehead. She wraps her in a large towel, rubbing her dry, walking her to the bedroom.

“I will take good care of you.”

Carol falls against her and holds onto her for dear, sweet life.

_Now if the cold, pale light in your eyes_

_Reaches those horizon lines_

_You know not to leave her_

_Fever_

  
  



	10. Blockers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catching up with all the characters: the derby team after Thursday’s practice bout and continuation of Therese nursing sick Carol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the point in the story when I remember the supporting characters banding together. "Your main characters," I heard their voices ganging up on me, "these bitches already have a book, screenplay, movie, fanfics ... It's OUR TURN." In the case of Skate, it felt like a deafening, singular "MY TURN."
> 
> And so I turned.

**_Blockers_ ** _are the positional players that form the pack. The pivot blocker is one of the four blockers per team allowed in each jam._

After the practice bout win, Jay meets derby players from both the Coaster Girls and Belligerents at a pub near Hangar 11. She makes a point of not sitting at the same table as Holla and her work friend, some guy named Clint with lovesick eyes. Might as well be Clark Kent the way he looks at her. To this poor schmuck, she’s Lois Lane. Jay thinks it’s ironic that Holla didn’t get a pet from the shelter. Now she’s got him, her latest puppy dog. 

Skate slides into the vacant large booth where Jay’s seated alone, slithering across from her snake-life, her worn out leather jacket and Navajo silver belt buckle drag across the edge of the table. “Nice blocking out there,” she says with a self-satisfied tilt of her head. It strikes Jay that she can’t even give a compliment without looking like she knows more than you. It’s only because she does. 

“Thanks,” Jay says, wishing the smug teammate would find another booth to park her smartass/badass, “but my head wasn’t into the game tonight.” 

“That so?” Skate makes an indifferent grunt, aware of Jay’s subtle side-eyed glance at Holla’s nearby table. “Where’s your head?” She half raises fingers nonchalantly toward a server who seems well acquainted with her preferred beer, bringing it before Jay’s even had a chance to order.

“Oh, just thinking too much about work deadlines. Just stupid stuff that hurts my Brian.” The instant Jay lets slip the silly inside joke, she regrets it. 

“Brian?” Skate flashes a _WTH_ glance. 

“Never mind, it’s nothing, really.” 

“Try me,” Skate takes a sip of beer, wiping a foam mustache with the back of her hand.

“It’s just what Holla and I call our brains when we’re tired. It started with a dumb typo in a text. You won’t find it funny.”

Skate stares at her, motionless, the badass wheels in _her_ _brain_ spin. “You’re right,” she says with certitude-attitude. 

“God, you’re irritating.” Jay considers how she always manages to over motor her mouth around Skate, letting her sit there drinking it all in with hardly a damn word. Talk is cheap and Skate’s the ultimate word miser. 

“Whatever,” Skate says without affection or offense, her gaze turning to notice a girl from the opposing team, the Belligerents who limps toward their booth. The skater, called One-Track, fell during the match-up on account of Skate pushing her arse into the out of bounds. The girl scoots closer to Skate and then a few inches more, looking up to no good, ignoring everyone at the table, pub and universe -- except Skate. She whispers into her ear, burying her lips into messy blonde hair, traces of smudged neon pink lipstick left on strands like a branding. Jay contemplates barfing and pretends to read the happy hour menu. 

“She really does have a one-track mind,” Skate raises an eye toward disgusted Jay, lays a twenty on the table and promptly slides out of the booth with the much younger girl hanging all over her. She struts out the front door like an animal, leaving Jay the lone wolf. 

The entire pub grows louder and more joyous. Laughter from pairs, trios, groups while Jay realizes she just got ditched by the most self-indulgent piece of work in the league. Hearing Holla’s distinctly warm laughter in the mix only makes things feel colder. If only Zee were here. But she’s off somewhere searching for her nurse. “Screw y’all,” Jay says against the noise. She gets up on her high horse and rides home.

* * *

“After I get you settled I’ll run out for more Motrin,” Therese holds a towel against Carol’s wet hair, drying it, her fingers gently rub soft strands that recently brushed against her face, lips and some sneaking across the surface of her tongue. “First,” she says timidly, “I need to get you out of your wet … _things_ .” The damp black undergarments need removing -- the sacred, private places where fingers recently explored soaked fabric, wanting to get the fevered woman entirely out of her _things_. “What do you wear to sleep?” Therese asks, nervously weighing her options in the propriety department: how much she needs versus wants to assist Carol in getting out of her wet intimates.

“Bottom drawer,” Carol answers faintly, holding onto her throbbing head, the pounding won’t let up. “And I need to call the hospital. I can’t cover my shift tomorrow. My phone’s dead.” 

“Use my cell.” Therese hands her the phone along with a tee shirt and sleep shorts she grabbed from the specified drawer. A pained expression follows with hints of kindness in glassy, blood-shot eyes. Therese experiences guilt at the places she’s allowed her mind to wander. Poor sick Carol. How much will shel even _remember_ of the fevered shower incident?

Therese finds a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt and changes in the privacy of the bathroom, pulling the sweatshirt material close to her face, lips in contact with the soft fabric, a reminder of what it felt like to touch Carol’s wet skin in a similar way. 

Dressed in sleep clothes, her wet underthings on the floor, Carol sits on the edge of the bed finished with her work sick call. Therese sits beside her holding up a thermometer she located in the bathroom medicine cabinet. She gently slides it into Carol’s mouth, pushing strands of wet hair out of tired eyes. The device quickly squawks urgent beeps detecting 101.9 degrees.

“I’m going out to get more Motrin. I’ll swing by my place for a few things too.” She’s never taken care of anyone like this before and she’s definitely never _cared_ for anyone like this before. 

“You don’t need to stay. I’ll be fine.” Her voice strained. She doesn’t mean a word of it. 

“You take care of everybody but yourself. You took care of me. Now I’m taking care of you. No more talk of it.” She kisses the top of Carol’s head. Sleepy, blood-shot eyes flutter then close completely. 

Therese appears ready for a sleepover when she returns with pharmacy supplies along with her laptop, toothbrush and a change of clothes from home. 

“Carol?” she whispers, bending near the sleeping woman, her hand on a shoulder, “you need to take these.” She turns on the nightstand lamp and helps her lift out of the thick comforter enough to swallow the fever reducers, the sick woman submitting fully to the caregiver. 

“Is your head better?”

“No.” Carol buries back into bed, covering her eyes from the light. She groans.

“I’m sorry,” Therese turns off the lamp. “I’ll be right back.” She returns with a cold pack made with ice cubes rolled neatly into a damp washcloth. She moves a pillow onto her lap and scoots into bed, sitting so that Carol’s head rests on her. A sigh releases as the cold cloth meets a warm forehead. 

“Where does it hurt?” 

“Everywhere and my neck.” Carol’s voice continues its slide into raw hoarseness coupled with a hint of youthfulness, enjoying being pampered. The more she’s babied, the more baby she becomes.

A hand begins rubbing in deep circles, releasing tension from tight neck muscles. “Oh,” a whimper as Therese starts at the bottom, at the _trapezius_ muscle, moving up and deeper still into _scalenus medius_. Each push of soothing fingers kills tension, bringing to life oozing moans. Therese occasionally readjusts the cold cloth, placing it on different spots: forehead, temples, neck. 

Fingers, thread tenderly through nearly dry hair, touching her scalp, back and forth, tickling nerve endings, soliciting more sighs that slowly fade, Carol’s body growing limp. Falling. She’s gone, breathing deep. Fast asleep. 

* * *

When Jay arrives home after the pub, she’s unsuccessful in ferreting out her mixed up, angry feelings, the ones surging through “Brian.” She’ll take her mind off things by burning a mix CD for Therese. It’s part of her birthday gift: the greatest hits from 1986, the year the birthday girl was born. Jay blasts the music until her adjoining condo neighbor pounds on the wall. 

Holla gets a ride home from her work friend. He walks her to her porch as she’s unsteady after too many drinks. When she grabs onto his arm he knows how much he wants to kiss her. 

“She didn’t even talk to me and she left early. What a baby.” Holla half out of it standing on her porch.

“Who?” Confused he watches the perplexing woman fumble through her purse looking for house keys, speaking it would seem, only to herself. When she unlocks the door, he’s hopeful to catch an opening. “Thanks” she says, closing the door quickly to keep the dogs from escaping. He’s left alone on the porch.

Libby's in charge at the childbirth center on a busy morning. Currently she monitors five labors and a planned c-section that’s wheeling into the O.R. She received word that Carol called in sick and quickly texts to check on her. After not hearing back by noon, she calls. Carol’s phone buzzes on her nightstand; she sleeps through it. Therese intercepts, getting up from the bedroom chair where she works on her laptop. Accidentally she picks up the call while trying to swipe it to voicemail. _Shit._

“Hello.” 

“Carol?” 

“No, she’s resting. Can I take a message?” 

Pause. 

“Who is this?” 

“Excuse me? Who is _this_?” 

“Oh, hi, this is Libby, a friend of Carol’s from the hospital.” The woman’s identity dawns on Libby.

“Oh, sure. Sorry. This is Therese, a friend who’s checking in on her while she’s not feeling well.” 

_Oh, I bet you’re checking on her all right._ “How is she?” 

“She still has a high fever and a bad headache.” 

“She says cold showers are the only thing that break her fevers.” 

“Okay, thanks Libby.” _If you only knew._

Therese makes soup and lemon tea for lunch. Carol’s capable of feeding herself, but both soup giver and receiver chose a different arrangement. Therese makes airplane sounds on the first spoonful. Carol rolls her eyes, pretending to hate it. The results of the latest temperature reading show 100.6. 

“You’re improving.” She kisses a cheek. Carol reaches for an arm as her caregiver begins to walk away with dirty dishes. She pats the spot next to her on the bed. 

“Sit with me,” whispers creep through inflamed vocal chords. 

“All right, let me put these dishes away first.” When she returns, she finds Carol sound asleep. Therese stands next to the bed watching her breathing in and out. Even with her mouth open, stuffed up and unable to breathe properly, she takes her breath away. 

* * *

**“That’s Not My Name” - by The Ting Tings**

**Holla**

Holla enters her garage, her sanctuary, a studio where she stores textile tools for her leatherworking hobby. The dogs follow and snuggle into beds she keeps out there for them. Feeling more sober, she puts the finishing touches on the leather saddle bag she’s making for Therese’s birthday, soldering designs of small, detailed roller skates on the edges of the front flap. When she’s finished she and the dogs snuggle in bed. She stays up reading, all the angst of the day washing away. Alone with her dogs: it’s the least lonely of places for this loner. 

_Four letter word just to get me along_

_It's a difficulty and I'm biting on my tongue_

_And I keep stalling, keeping me together_

_People around gotta find something to say now_

**Jay**

After work, Jay feels the need to skate. Fast. It’s raining too hard to be outside. She goes to Hangar 11 and uses her key to open the heavy metal door. After lacing up, she puts ear buds in and cues up one of her favorite songs. She starts out slow, spinning backwards; it’s how she’s felt all week. Backwards. 

_Holding back, every day the same_

_Don't wanna be a loner_

_Listen to me, oh no_

_I never say anything at all_

_But with nothing to consider they forget my name_

**Skate N One-Track**

Skate wears her leather jacket and nothing else. She’s at One-Track’s place. A small tattoo, initials of the only person Skate’s ever loved, moves back and forth high on her right buttocks. She holds onto One Track’s right leg trying to avoid the rug burns, the abrasions she caused on and off the track. One-Track shouts out the name “Kate,” staring into intense mascara-smeared eyes cold and dead, hiding what’s broken inside.

“Who the fuck’s Kate?” 

“That’s not your real name?” 

“No.”

Neither gives a damn nor requires further clarification. Skate goes in for another round, trying to kill her pain with sex. Tonight it’s this girl. Tomorrow who knows the person’s name. It doesn’t matter. No amount of pushing and pressing her naked body into someone else’s cures her. Night after night. It’s always the same -- she feels as broken and lonely as the day before. 

_So alone all the time at night_

_Lock myself away_

_Listen to me, I'm not_

_Although I'm dressed up, out and all with_

_Everything considered they forget my name_

_(ame, ame, ame)_

_They call me "Hell"_

**Therese & Carol **

Therese crawls into bed next to Carol after dinner. She reads to her softly from Edith Pearlman’s novel Honeydew, a collection of offbeat love stories, a book she found on Carol’s nightstand. The longer she reads, the closer Carol slides, draping her arm across Therese’s stomach, her head cradled in the crook of her neck. They fall asleep with the book resting on Therese’s chest and her lips almost touching the top of Carol’s head. She imagines her upcoming birthday and can’t bear the thought of spending it with anyone else. She definitely needs to invite Carol on the b-day trip or better yet, cancel it altogether. It’s in the quiet moment, hearing only Carol’s breathing, that she realizes how she’s felt lonely her entire life. Until now. 

_Are you calling me darling?_

_Are you calling me bird?_

_Are you calling me darling?_

_Are you calling me bird?_


	11. Whip - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Therese’s birthday approaches. A short chapter. Ambience.

**_Whip_ ** _– an assist technique wherein one skater uses another skater’s momentum to propel herself. For example, a jammer may grab a blocker’s arm, and the blocker will use her power and momentum to pull the jammer forward._

“We missed you around here last week,” Libby tells Carol during their lunch break. “Glad you’ve recovered.”

“Thanks. Guess I caught whatever Randy had.”

“Or you’re love sick.” 

“Clearly you need to put your imagination to better use with fiction writing.”

“Deny all you like, old friend. I talked to that young woman on the phone, told her how to cool you off … as if that were possible. Start talking. Shower me with the details.” 

“Well, honestly, it’s all quite a fog, a bit of a blur. I’m so glad Therese didn’t catch it.” _Despite her best efforts._ Carol dips a spoon into her soup and blows on it, remembering how Therese fed her. She smiles and gradually stops with her customary denials. “Libby,” she scans briefly the nearby tables, protective of what she’s about to share, “no one’s ever taken care of me like she did. Not my parents and certainly not Harris.”

“I suspect she cares for you because she’s genuinely _in_ care with you.” Libby stops with the teasing, her tone appropriately serious concerning these obvious matters of the heart.

She doesn’t deny it and continues opening new chambers of her heart. “Libby, I miss her. She’s on a work trip in Portland. We’re going away together, for her birthday, when she gets back. Originally she was going on the trip with her friends … but.” Carol gets ahead of herself. Libby doesn’t need these extraneous details, rope she’ll end up strangling the both of them with. “I’m nervous about it.” Carol stirs her soup.

“Want my friendly advice?”

“Of course not.” 

Discounting the response, Libby chuckles, leaning closer, she dispenses her unsolicited advice. “Follow your foolish little heart and get your freak on. Give your body what it wants.” She gives a prideful wave of a hand in the air, her laughter almost contagious. 

Carol stops stirring soup and clears her throat, her cheeks red like a radish, a returning fever. She’s all stirred up. 

* * *

Therese sits at the desk in her hotel room finishing up a security report for her client. The trip went well with the exception of one infinitely nagging detail. She misses Carol. Badly. The thought of the upcoming birthday trip makes it particularly difficult to stay focused as well. She can’t believe the fateful timing of how things fell into place concerning the trip. When she learned Carol’s birthday plans with her son changed, she tried not to act too stirred up about it, self-talk calming her untamed inner excitement: _Chill baby._ “What a coincidence. My plans changed too. Things are still weird between Jay and Holla so I rescheduled for another time, say when they’re speaking to each other. I haven’t canceled the beach camp reservation yet. It’s for Thursday and Friday. Maybe we could go there ... together?” _Inserting “and sleep” between the ellipses, optional._

All she wants to do is call or text Carol again or simply daydream about how she hopes their two nights together will unfold. First things worst or she’ll lose her job. She needs to finish the report. If she calls, she’ll never get off the phone and one text might multiply like rabbits into fifty. She brews a pot of coffee, visualizing tomorrow night – one kiss turning into fifty with Carol completely over her illness and them in the same city, the same room, soon the same yurt. 

It’s raining, because it’s Portland. Therese stands on her hotel balcony drinking coffee, letting cool raindrops fall all over her face, imagining a recent event with Carol pressed against her, cold water dripping from their bodies and she feels herself being held: long arms wrap tight around her chest, a soft wet cheek against hers, but warmer this time. She leans into the feeling and watches raindrops fall down all around them.

Carol reruns how she wants the beach birthday trip to go, Libby’s _interesting_ comments from lunch unshakeable and interruptive. Before bed, she stands outside on her back patio in the rain, looking up into the heavens as though in prayer, letting cold, soothing drops trickle down her face. She opens her robe just enough to let wet spray chill her body that’s not warm to the touch, but burning with expectation. She’s already talked to Therese twice today. She wants to call or text but won't disturb her; she knows about the important report she needs to finish. If she calls it will only distract her. She opens her robe wider and imagines Therese standing across from her, raindrops like dew upon her lips and hands, about to open her robe even wider. 

**“Hurry Hurry” by Jessie Baylin**

_I’m in your city and you’re nowhere near me_

_I’m surrounded by the words you told me_

_Things you love, things you love_

_What is it all without you_

_What is it all without you_

_Oh hurry hurry home my baby_

_Hurry hurry home my love_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beach and yurt await.


	12. Whip - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Therese's birthday present gets unwrapped. Part 2 of previous chapter.

**_Whip_ ** _ – an assist technique wherein one skater uses another skater’s momentum to propel herself. For example, a jammer may grab a blocker’s arm, and the blocker will use her power and momentum to pull the jammer forward. _

**October 21, 1986 - Baby Therese**

On the day she was born, her mother wasn’t ready. It happened too fast. Dilated ten centimeters, her moaning filled the childbirth center corridors, warning night nurses who came running. The father tried to explain: “The labor sped up like crazy in the car,” his wife’s fingernails digging into his arm, her teeth clenched on the crest of an approaching wave. 

The nurses rush her to the nearest labor room. Fifteen minutes later, at 12:11am, Baby Belivet was born.

**October 21, 1986 - Teen Carol**

On the day that Therese Belivet was born, a thirteen-year-old Carol received a note from a boy in her biology class.  _ Dear Carol, I’m not sure who I like more, you or Becky. She’s mad because she knows I like you. -Jeff.  _ Romeo drops the note on her desk at the start of a lesson on cell division and sexual reproduction. She shoves it into the back of her life science textbook and resumes her studies, watching the substitute science teacher with growing preoccupation. The young student notes the subtlest of the woman’s mannerisms, the way she lifts one foot off the floor when she writes the word  _ Mitosis  _ on the chalkboard. Something about her causes peculiar sensations, perhaps growing pains she wonders, walls and cavities inside of her stretched and searching . 

**October 20, 2016**

The day before Therese’s birthday, Carol offers to drive. Chauffeuring the birthday girl only seems fitting. “I know it’s just your way of not having to ride in my messy car.” Therese smiles, throwing her bag into the back of the wagon. Carol does not disagree.

The drive to Grayland Beach State Park takes just over two hours, the time passing quickly between them listening to the 1986 mix CD Jay made for Therese. Hits such as “Addicted to Love” and “Kiss” cause different reactions in each of them.The younger woman appreciates the songs, they’re familiar, but cause no emotional attachment. The older woman, however, experiences nostalgic pangs while listening, reminded of her youth and the universal realization that no matter how different we may appear since our formidable years, we often feel very much the same.

“What were you doing in 1986?” Therese turns the music down.

“Middle school.” Carol laughs, lines at the corners of her eyes stretch, causing Therese to follow those lines intensely with her own eyes.

They turn onto Cranberry Beach Road that leads to the park entrance. Carol rolls down the windows, letting in the sounds and smells of the ocean as her wagon meanders through wooded loops of campsites and eventually a limited number of yurts. The coolness of the late-October afternoon on their faces makes Carol wonder if she packed the right clothing. She’d found herself more preoccupied in prior days with activities she hopes require no clothing. At least she brought a warm coat, blanket and a sleeping bag. 

“There it is,” Therese points to the yurt she reserved, #Y-120, the same one she stays at each time she visits the park. Memories of coming here with friends makes her miss them, even their drama. She forgets all about them the instant she glances at Carol unbuckling her seatbelt after the wagon comes to a stop alongside the yurt, transfigured by how the woman twists her body, freeing it with fluidity from the safety restraint. 

The yurt structure appears more primitive than Carol expected, even after she browsed photos online the night before. The yurt shelter, mere steps from a walking path that leads directly to the Pacific Ocean, comes with a heater, lights, deadbolt on the door, a set of bunk beds and a large double futon bed in the center of the room. However, these accommodations in no way qualify as a well “appointed” or a place where Carol would intentionally stay. 

“What a lovely place,” she says walking into the yurt behind Therese, speaking of the company, not the rustic accommodations. “Next time, how about we stay someplace that has a toilet?” 

“Please, there’s a restroom and shower just over there.” Therese, accustomed to roughing it, nods her head toward the nearby public facility. 

“Hopefully I won’t need another cold shower.” They exchange a smile and tiny sparks of electricity. 

First they throw sleeping bags and luggage in the yurt and head to the beach to watch the setting sun. The vegetarian pie they picked up at the only pizza joint in town still feels warm. A bottle of red wine, two camp chairs and a blanket also accompany them. “I can’t believe it’s not raining. No matter the season, it’s always windy out here. I just love that. The wind. Don’t you?” 

Carol half nods, preferring a hotel and a private bath over the wind. Then she watches how the breeze sends strands of Therese’s hair to land in the corners of her mouth and on her lips. She envies this wind. “Yes,” she agrees, “it’s refreshing.”

They set up chairs side-by-side on the beach and Therese lays the plaid blanket Carol brought across their laps. 

“Happy Birthday Eve.” A glass of wine held up followed by the soft ding of glasses coming together, the sound soon carried by the wind, out to sea.

“I was born just after midnight.”

“Really? So we can officially celebrate in just a few hours.” 

“You know a weird coincidence I was thinking about on the way here?” Therese looks contemplative.

“What’s that?” 

“I was born 30 years ago and Randy was born 13 years ago. The difference in your age and mine is also 13. So, that means you were exactly my age when you gave birth, when you became a Mother.

“Yes, that is a strange coincidence and so many 13’s. Don’t tell me you’re superstitious?”

“No, it’s not that at all. It just got me thinking about you at my age, becoming a Mother. Tell me about the day Randy was born. What was it like?”

“Well, it was a real pain in my ass.” She turns and kisses the top of Therese’s head that leans closer until it rests on against her shoulder.

“Come on. Serious. Were you afraid?” 

“Afraid? Oh, I suppose so. A little. But remember, I was a labor and delivery nurse already by then, so maybe not as scared as most – at least I knew what to expect.” 

“What does it feel like … being in labor?” 

Carol remembers only flashes of giving birth and working in a childbirth center has a way of making the birthing process, especially on busy, baby factory days, seem ordinary. Sometimes she’s keenly aware of the sounds of childbirth, moans and groans of pain, oddly reminiscent of primal human ecstasy, the aching sounds before orgasm. It constantly reminds her that no pleasure comes without pain. “I can’t remember the pain that much now,” she searches for an answer, “you sort of leave your body when you’re in terrible pain.” 

Therese cannot relate, except the experience of meeting Carol and spending time near and away from her resembles the deepest encounters she’s experienced with pleasure and pain. She moves her hand so it rests on Carol’s coat, over her abdomen, trying to imagine what her stomach felt like when she was at her most pregnant stage. She wishes  _ she _ were the one at Carol’s bedside, holding her hand through the pain, encouraging her, being part of that most intimate of events. And more so, being the one responsible for the prior ecstasy too. She looks down at her hand and feels embarrassed wishing she were capable of putting a life made from both of them inside of Carol. “I want to see pictures of when you were expecting.”

“If it makes you happy seeing me about to explode.” 

Carol’s arm wraps around her and makes her more interested in the love making that actually made baby Randy. What did  _ that _ feel like? She buries her cheek against Carol’s chest and tries not to think about questions regarding conception, a topic she lacks any concept.

The hand placed over her stomach causes Carol to remember how attentive Therese was during her sickness. Illogically, it makes her wish she went through pregnancy and childbirth with her rather than Harris. It makes her want very badly to get Therese back to the yurt. It’s her turn again to be the caregiver. 

They sit without talking for several more minutes, watching the sun disappear into the horizon. Waves crest and the tide rolls in, bringing with it their deep feelings for each other that bobbed miles from shore like driftwood, unrequited for weeks. 

“Let’s get back and build a campfire, sweetheart.” Carol’s the first to stand. Though only a few hours remain until it’s technically Therese’s birthday, she doesn’t know how much longer she can wait to give her present. 

They sit around the campfire with s'mores fixings. All of Therese’s marshmallows end up burnt. Carol’s of course turn out just right -- a puffy tan outside and a soft, creamy center. “Here, let me make you one. You are very bad at this.” 

Therese turns her full attention to how Carol performs marshmallow rotisserie, keeping the white, spongy matter close enough to the hot coals without lighting it on fire. Occasionally she lifts the treat from the furnace and blows on it gently.

Therese blinks through a wall of smoke, her eyes and throat burn. 

“There. Done.” Carol hands over the dessert. “We need a birthday candle to stick in the middle, don’t we?”

“I suppose the campfire’s flame enough,” Therese smiles with marshmallow cream on her lips. 

They chat for a while longer, staying by the dying fire, darkness growing thicker all around them. The campsite becomes completely quiet except for the consistent crash of waves. 

Therese’s eyes follow Carol who reaches for her hand.

“Therese?” 

“Yes.” 

“Let's get ready for bed.” 

**October 21, 2003 - Teen Therese & Mother Carol **

Therese celebrates her 17th birthday, receiving a new pair of inline skates from her parents and taking in a movie with friends. Meanwhile, Harris Aird drives his wife, Carol, to the hospital. Her water broke and contractions now grow stronger, barreling down on her. She bears down, fingers digging into leather car seats as the Father-to-be drives too calmly, one might even say he’s detached. Harris Aird prides himself on the motto  _ Cool Heads Prevail _ , a required bedside manner for an up and coming young surgeon.

Carol’s distressed vocalizations increase from the passenger’s seat. Harris remains composed, manning the driver’s seat with a cool head. Occasionally she swears at the pain, wishing he’d swear with her, blow a little bit of  _ Hot Head  _ steam with her once in a while.

Randy’s Mother and Father are present at his birth. Physically. Emotionally, a semi-truck could park between them, the Mother receiving more tenderness from nurses, perfect strangers in the hospital unit. The baby making process was much the same way, the Father the one pushing hard this time, the Mother beneath him. How much he worked, trying to make her scream. A crater-sized hole began forming inside of her at the  _ inconceivability _ of an emotional connection between them. 

**Birthday Yurting**

Therese follows Carol into the yurt. 

One of them turns up the heat while the other lays out their sleeping bags on the double futon bed bathed in soft, dim lantern light that makes the yurt seem full of burning candles.

Carol places her hand on Therese’s cheek and guides her to sit on the edge of the bed. The birthday planning is over. Now, it’s time to deliver.

Standing alongside the bed, Carol slides out of her coat. It drops to the floor. The lantern light absorbs changes in the posture and facial expressions of Carol painstakingly unbuttoning her shirt, never letting her gaze desert her audience. The shirt hangs open until Carol pulls it off her shoulders, then down slowly over long arms that long to hold onto the woman sitting wide-eyed on the bed. The shirt drops to the floor, a floating feather.

Therese can’t feel her feet, legs or arms. Her heart throbs and swells. She waits, waits for Carol to fully unwrap herself. 

Sliding out of jeans one leg at a time, she continues exposing each glorious bend, curve and fold of herself until she’s standing almost full frontal of Therese in familiar black panties and bra. 

“Oh, Carol.”

“Shh,” a finger rises to lips before Carol reaches around and unhooks her bra, then pulls the straps down until the supportive garment slides down her arms and surrenders too into the cold pile of threads on the floor no longer in contact with Carol's warm body. Her breasts fully bared, Carol looks modestly to the side, allowing herself to be taken in, almost fully. Eyes feel like hands that can’t reach far enough for her. The yurt becomes still, time not a concept when Carol places her hands on either side of her own hips, resting them on the elastic waistband of her black panties before the slide. Down. Down. Down her shapely thighs, eyes not moving from the young woman watching the black garment nearing her knees, ankles. The floor. 

Each second that ticks on a pulsating clock expands tissue deep within each woman. Parts that need to unite stretch in preparation for the hard labor ahead. 

Carol closes her eyes in this quiet capable of crushing them both, flat on the floor with the clothing. It’s the hardest thing Carol has ever done, just standing still and letting the birthday girl see her, all of her, exposed in the dim lantern light. 

Every inch of her.

All Woman. 

“You’re beautiful.” Therese wants to cry when she says it. On the inside, both women are weeping. Gently. 

“We need you in your birthday suit too, don’t we sweetheart?” A new voice found in the near darkness, primal, an animal in heat. When she’s done with her, more fabric joins the pile on the floor. 

They lie together with lips joining first in smooth, satiny rolls – wave after wave of wet, thick folds of tissue, muscles in a constant state of slippery unison. Together they move in tiny, slowly progressing baby circles that venture farther with hands and lips finding new destinations. An open, wet mouth on Carol’s breasts makes her moan, her eyes closing in total concentration with her head dangled back and then sideways, disheveled hair the smell of campfire obscuring most of her face. Hands move down to rest on Therese’s lower back, pulling disrobed bodies closer, both trying to occupy the same space. 

Therese opens her heart wide as Carol moves pieces of herself inside of her, their flexible bodies twisted into unique positions, each tasting bits of sand from the beach sprinkled from hair that falls conspicuous into mouths, grits grind between teeth.

_ Giving birth, what’s it like? _

_ So much pushing. _

Moans grow with intensity, impetuously expressing how much they feel, how deeply they care for each other. Carol’s primitive eyes scorch through Therese and beyond, into a faraway land where she’s prepared to drag them both. A hand rests firm on a lower abdomen, over the location of Therese’s uterus. 

“My Baby.” 

Therese slides inside too, the space opens easily for her, and the moans low at first and the rocking, riding out hints of pain in search of ecstasy. 

They are as beautiful as they will ever be. Right now. Therese wants to sob at how spectacular the woman above her looks and feels, inside too, a passageway where a man once entered and a baby boy left, the Mother’s eyes try to stay open, her breasts hanging down like ripe fruit for the picking. Rocking against each other slow and deep and overtaking either of their abilities to form words.

Just after midnight, the birthday girl looks up into a clear dome sky light in the yurt’s ceiling, a view into the dark night sky, a heavens’ worth of brilliant lights blinking at her, thousands of constellations watching over her as she’s about to be BORN yet again. 

_ Bear down.  _

_ In. Just. One.  _

_ More. Push. _

A nearly infantile cry pours out of Therese, her naked body shakes, recovering from the journey, covered in a combination of bodily fluids -- saliva, sweat, tears and certain proof of their shared arousal. She gasps for air, breathing as though with new lungs, falling into welcoming arms, cradled tightly by the woman who lovingly delivered her. 

They swim gently into each other again in the morning when the tide goes rolling back out to sea. The taste of tomato paste, mushroom and wine lingers on their lips and the salty taste of each other too, not unlike the sea. 

**“Baby, I’m Yours” - Barbara Lewis**

_ Baby I’m yours _

_ And I’ll be yours until the stars fall from the sky _

_ Yours until the rivers all run dry _

_ In other words until I die _

_ Baby I’m yours _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Readers,
> 
> It's been a pleasure to repost the first 12 chapters of this skating story. Due to changing writing priorities, I'd rather focus my limited time starting and finishing other projects, ones fresher to me. These chapters of Skating By are the most important ones that focus on the leads, the most memorable scenes of them together. The remainder of the story contained an emphasis on my original characters, the ones I turned into a work of fiction called Falling Small. I hope you'll understand my decision to leave it at 12 and that you enjoyed revisiting how the main characters came to meet and fall in love. Thank you for reading and all the very best to you.
> 
> Sincerely, Soundtracker


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